


only if for a night

by sassymajesty



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Business AU, CEO Lexa, F/F, Financial Analyst Clarke, Past Costia/Lexa (The 100), You know where I'm going with this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-11-06
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:47:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 26,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24029113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sassymajesty/pseuds/sassymajesty
Summary: Opening the door to her office, Lexa steps inside with apologies falling from her lips. “Ms. Griffin, I’m really sorry for keeping you waiting. I had some hiccups in my morning, I’m usually much more punctual than this.”The woman settles her phone down and straightens up, lengthening her spine before getting up. All Lexa see is blonde hair neatly combed falling over one shoulder, and she looks away for a moment, quickly putting her bag and planner away on a table by the entryway before meeting her new head of finances.“There’s nothing to worry about. I’m sure you had a difficult morning,” the words find Lexa before she looks up and her blood turning into ice, little crystals keeping her heart from beating.That voice.Lexaknowsthat voice.
Relationships: Clarke Griffin/Lexa
Comments: 251
Kudos: 1075





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> After so much teasing about it on Tumblr, here it is!
> 
> This story started as a one shot, and this would be all of it. But I'm turning it into a longer story - because oh the potential of this trope has me on my knees. For the first time, I'm posting the first chapter of a story without any idea of where it might go, so I'm really not sure when there'll be an update. But I hope you all enjoy this filfthy beginning.
> 
> You can find the moodboard for this story [here](https://sassymajesty.tumblr.com/post/617319081291415552)!

Making a left where she should have made a right, Lexa drives without seeing where she’s going, stopping for red lights and pressing the gas pedal a little too heavily when they turn green, ending up ten blocks farther away from her apartment before she even notices it.

She’s still not ready to go home.

Because it’s not  _ home _ , it’s never been home for her.

Home is the two bedroom house with a wrap around porch that put a dent into their savings account, with a backyard too big for the two of them, but just the right size for a dog and a toddler to play around. Home is waking up tangled in bedsheets, an arm resting heavy on her stomach, tight curls getting in her face first thing in the morning. Home is reading while her wife goofed around on her laptop beside her, interrupting her every now and then to show her some cat video that had made her laugh.

Home is the warmth her wife brought to her chest with a single smile.

That apartment, with an industrial look to it, exposed beams and exposed brick, the furthest thing from where she used to live, isn’t home. It can never be home.

Home is wherever Costia is - which now happens to be the Auburn Hill Cemetery, under an oak tree. 

It’s been three years since she stopped being a  _ wife  _ and became a  _ widow _ . Three years since her wife’s car got caught in a T-bone crash by a truck driver who hadn’t checked their brakes in a long time. Three years since Lexa watched them prying the door open with huge plyers, her eyes skipping from her wife’s lifeless frame to the flowers on the passenger seat, still wrapped in kraft paper beside the take out containers that were supposed to be their dinner.

Three years to the fucking day.

Lexa parks her car in the first spot she finds, turning the engine off and praying to whatever gods are listening that she wakes up tomorrow to find her wife safe and sound beside her. Her hands are shaking as she unbuckles her seatbelt and pinches her nose to fight the tears that insist on coming.

She’s sick and tired of missing her. She’s angry at the world and she’s fucking exhausted of missing her wife so much.

She’s sick of  _ feeling _ .

Closing the door with more force than she needs to as she climbs out the car, Lexa forces herself to take a deep breath. The air is far from fresh this far into the city, but she takes two more deep breaths and rolls her shoulders back, tipping her chin up as she falls into step with the thinning crowd making their way home or somewhere else on the sidewalk.

Before she realizes where her feet are taking her, too focused on keeping her tears from pooling in her eyes to pay attention, Lexa finds herself in front of a dive bar. The sign hanging precariously above the door says something, probably the name of the bar, in a red so faded she can’t make out what it says, and one look inside tells her she’d stand out like a sore thumb if she ever walking in there in her pencil skirt and silk blouse. 

But when someone bumps into her shoulder and curses at her for standing in the middle of the way, Lexa swings the door open and walks inside.

No better way to spend her wife’s death anniversary than getting drunk enough to forget how her lips tasted - to forget that taste is slowly fading from her memory, no matter how much she tries to cling to it.

It takes her aback for a moment, how crowded the bar is. Considering it’s almost nine on a Tuesday night, Lexa figured she’d barely be able to make it in time for last call. But the place is swarming with college kids, either discussing something too loudly for her to make sense or yelling at someone to chug their beer. Something tells Lexa they don’t really ID people in here.

A few people look at her, some in passing, some ogling, all of them wondering what the hell someone like her is doing in a place like this. She’s wondering that herself as she plops herself on an empty stool at the end of the bar, all grace she usually exudes in the office forgotten at the door.

“Hey,” a hunky guy with a sweet smile that overpowered all the muscles he had under the tight shirt leans over the counter near her, mopping up a spill another patron left, “What can I get you?”

Lexa hadn’t even thought  _ this _ far ahead, “What’s the strongest thing you have?”

He chuckles, warm and welcoming, and it disarms Lexa a bit. “I have absinthe, but I’m guessing you’re not here for one drink only?” Lexa nods, because it’s the truth, and he grabs a glass from a rack underneath the counter, “Whiskey okay? On the rocks?”

Nodding again, Lexa watches as he puts a few ice cubes in the glass before setting it in front of her, pouring a golden brown liquid until most of the ice is covered and pushing it towards her. She takes a sip, the rich liquor burning her tongue, and slips a few bills to him - it should be enough for four, maybe five more drinks, and she has the feeling she’ll need them, “Keep them coming.”

The guy - bartender? bar owner? Lexa doesn’t have the energy to ask or even wonder - clicks his tongue in a “ _ you got it _ ” way and walks away to see to other patrons, leaving her to nurse her drink alone with her thoughts.

It’s been a long day.

Today started as ordinary as a day could be. She woke up before the sun, meditated for almost a full hour, started working on her soy latte - same as any other morning. Then she turned her phone on to check what she had planned for today and saw the date.

That’s when her world started cracking at the edges.

Because she had forgotten it was coming, because it took her completely by surprise.

For the past two years, Lexa had managed to get her emotions under wraps around this time of the year. She’d take a few days to mourn her dead wife, allow herself to grieve everything they could never be. She’d spread the hurt over a week of cemetery visits and half days at work, letting it wash over her in small waves that she could control.

But this year, it felt like an avalanche that came crashing down on her, knocking the wind out of her as she tumbled away from any resemblance of rationality.

Suddenly, everything felt too much, more than she could handle. Suddenly, she didn’t care about her job, her seamless morning routine, her emotional health - she had forgotten her wife’s death anniversary.

Guilt rippled through her ever so often, making sure she never went too long without hating herself for it, but all that accomplished was turning her mood more and more sour by the minute and leaving her to snap at every single person who works under her.

It’s been a long day and she knows she made more than a few interns cry in the morning alone, she knows she shouldn’t have let her emotions get the best of her like it did. But still, she can’t quite get herself to wash away the bitter taste shame left in the back of her throat - because she couldn’t go visit her wife’s grave in her death anniversary, like she promised herself she would.

Tossing the rest of her whiskey back in a futile attempt to get rid of that bitterness and half heartedly waving at the muscular guy, Lexa makes a mental note to drop by her favorite bakery tomorrow before work and bring muffins as a blanket apology for being such a complete asshole.

It’s not that she’s usually a fun boss. Lexa knows she’s not - after all, she didn’t earn a nickname as strong as  _ commander _ by being lovely and easy going. She’s stern and demands to see results no matter what excuse she gets. But there’s a line between being an unrelenting boss and a bitch to everyone who crossed her path.

Grabbing her new drink as the hunky bartender takes her empty glass away, Lexa settles a bit more easily on her stool, her posture relaxing just a smidge with the alcohol flowing in her veins. It’s not enough for her to forget why she came here, not nearly enough for her mind to go quiet, but Lexa finds herself looking around and taking in her surroundings, distracting herself by watching the other patrons.

Most of them are college kids, that’s pretty obvious, and while Lexa has no interest in talking to any of them, they can be pretty entertaining to watch.

There’s a girl in a booth across from the bar who’s crying into a tall drink, eyeliner smudged and hair tied in a messy not as she reads through texts that seem to be too long to be good news. A couple sits a few stools from her, their hands intertwined on the boy’s lap, and they look a little too eager to finish their drinks and go hook up somewhere. It makes Lexa almost uncomfortable to be near such raw sexual tension that she’s pretty sure only people in their early twenties can muster.

A few booths down, there’s a group of frat boys loudly discussing an upcoming party that go quiet as soon as one of their buddies come back with a fruity drink instead of a beer, a single “ _ dude, the fuck _ ?” breaking the silence. 

Lexa sips her whiskey, slightly too amused as she watches the fruity drink making rounds among the guys before they agree that it’s better than beer and everyone orders one. She’s so distracted that she almost misses the girl - no, the  _ woman _ ; she doesn’t seem to be much older than the college kids she’s been watching, but calling her  _ girl  _ sounds too odd - that walks inside and leans on the counter.

“Hey, Lincoln,” the woman calls, her blonde curls bouncing as she gets on her tiptoes to greet the bartender with a kiss on the cheek, “Is Octavia in tonight? I might need help to hide a body.”

Lexa frowns at the casual tone and turns to watch the interaction, frat boys forgotten for the moment. Only when the guy,  _ Lincoln _ , lets out a warm laughter and fills a mug with beer from a tap before handing it back to her, is that Lexa realizes it was a joke.

“What did Raven do now?” Lincoln says, sliding the mug that seems way too big for one single drink across the counter. They’re close enough that Lexa can hear everything without being too obvious about it, and she finds herself maybe too interested in that this Raven girl did to the pretty woman sitting two stools down from her.

The blonde takes a healthy gulp, then three more, and sets it down again. “She locked me out the apartment to go fuck her girlfriend halfway across town and won’t return my calls,” she says in a very annoyed voice. “I texted her this morning that I didn’t have my keys, but the fucker goes and doesn’t even bother leaving it in the reception. So she’s dead meat. And I need Octavia’s muscles to drag her body to the river.”

Lincoln laughs again, his body shaking as he throws his head back, and it calms Lexa down a bit - even if she can’t tell if it’s his laughter, realizing it’s all an inside joke between them, or the way the blonde smiles. 

“Oh my god, Clarke.”  _ Clarke _ . Lexa looks at the blonde, trying to be casual as she takes a sip from her whiskey again, a bit bigger than the one before. It fits her, she decides. Lincoln throws the dish towel he’s been holding over his shoulder as his laughter dies down, “I think I have your spare key somewhere in the back, if it helps you avoid murder.”

The woman, Clarke, cries out in relief, “Have I ever told you you’re an angel, Linc?”

“I’m pretty sure that’s the beer talking,” Lincoln shakes his head at her, waving at the other bartender a little ways down the bar to signal he’ll be right back before he walks away.

“Not yet!” Clarke yells after him, looking at her beer. The mug is probably bigger than her face and she’s only made her way through maybe a fifth of it so far, but she shrugs to herself and takes another big swig from it.

Lexa watches her own drink for a moment, the amber liquid all but gone now, only a shadow remaining among the ice cubes. It hits her that she hasn’t eaten anything since her lunch made her sick to her stomach - she ordered an arugula and mango salad without realizing it was one of Costia’s favorite - and the whiskey has nothing to cushion its landing.

So, she’ll get blackout drunk with less alcohol. It works fine for her.

Lifting her eyes while trying - and probably failing - to be discreet, Lexa takes in the woman beside her. Her Converse sneakers and light wash jeans are stained with paints varying from light grey to a few shades of blue, her oversized tee is tied around her waist and, if Lexa squint, she can be pretty sure there’s some paint on her blonde hair as well.

She takes one last sip from her drink before only the ice remains and stares at the woman a little longer, her brain just foggy enough for her to forget it’s not exactly proper to do that, for her to not be ashamed of looking at a beautiful woman and telling herself it’s okay to find someone else attractive.

It’s been three years. Her heart still pulls at the thought of touching someone that isn’t Costia, but she ignores it, tells herself  _ looking _ isn’t touching.

Clarke catches her staring and her reflexes are slowing down, so instead of looking away, Lexa forces herself to tilt her chin up, meet the woman’s gaze - her eyes are blue, in a shade that isn’t among the array of blues staining her jeans.

Grabbing her beer and walking the short distance between them, Clarke leans against the stool beside Lexa, their eyes never leaving each other. “Hey,” Clarke says in greeting, her voice deeper than the one she used with Lincoln. Then she takes Lexa in, her eyes very slowly dragging her gaze down her figure. Lexa could swear she sees the blue in them getting a little darker before her eyes linger on her finger — her wedding ring is still in the same place Costia put it. “Oh, you’re married.”

Her voice goes up a little, the lilt turning it into an almost question — it contrasts to the way Clarke herself deflates. Lexa looks at the golden band hugging her finger.

In the morning, Lexa would look back at this moment and kick herself for not taking an out when she should, when she  _ could _ have. It’d be easy to say that yes, she is very much married, and get up, get a cab, get home, cry until sleep overcame her. Because she knows what a stare like Clarke’s means, knows herself well enough to be aware she won’t go back.

“Not anymore,” Lexa says, taking a gulp from her whiskey, letting it burn down her throat. It’s vague enough that Clarke might not know what she means. What’s sadder, Lexa wonders, to be a widow or a divorcée when she still has her entire life ahead of her.

As it turns out, Clarke isn’t too interested in her lost lover, “Can I buy you a drink?”

Lexa gives her a once over, as if she’s considering the proposal, as if she hasn’t been staring at her for the past few minutes. Ignoring the lump in her throat and the wrongness that stings her chest, Lexa shrugs, “Sure.”

Humming her approval and smirking at her, Clarke takes a look at her empty glass, “What you having?”

“Whiskey,” Lexa answers simply, and she can barely get the word out, but she can’t tell if it’s because the alcohol in her system is starting to mess with her senses or because Clarke is standing dangerously close to her.

Nonetheless, the answer seems to impress Clarke, “You like it or you’re trying to drown something?”

A bitter laughter rises from Lexa’s chest before she can muffle it. Being a female CEO in a male dominated field has forced her to develop a taste for whiskey, but she’s used to more expensive liquor, she’s used to barely sipping at it before throwing the rest out. “A bit of both, I guess.”

“Got it,” Clarke nods, like she really does get it, and presses herself slightly against Lexa before circling the counter, going behind the bar.

The casual touch is enough to leave Lexa disoriented - she’s touch starved and craving attention, she knows that much, but it’s still embarrassing the way her heart pounds against her ribcage. She blinks it away, watching Clarke get a new glass and pour ice inside, “Are you allowed to do that?”

“I’m friends with the owners, I guess I’ll be fine,” she shrugs and Lexa hums, pretty sure the hunky guy won’t throw either of them out. Lexa makes a mental note to tell Lincoln about the extra drink when she’s paying, but it almost slips through her mind as she watches Clarke pouring the whiskey and looking at her through her eyelashes, “I don’t think I’ve seen you here before.”

Laughter bubbles in Lexa’s chest and it’s as odd as it is welcomed. She tampers it down to a smirk, her body not used to laughing anymore, and raises an eyebrow at the woman that slides her new drink towards her, “Are you seriously giving me the ‘ _ do you come here often? _ ’ line?”

“Oh come on, sometimes it works,” Clarke laughs it off as she circles the counter again, sitting on the stool beside Lexa, close enough for her knees to gently touch her thigh, “But no. It’s just that I’d remember your face. I would have definitely flirted with you before tonight.”

It takes a moment for the words to sink in and when they do, Lexa is glad she isn’t holding her drink, “ _ Oh _ .”

“Yeah,” Clarke smirks, apparently amused at Lexa for thinking someone as attractive as the blonde with tight jeans and beautiful blue eyes could never flirt with her, “I’m Clarke, by the way.”

Lexa takes the hand Clarke offers her, shaking it softly. She usually makes a point of shaking everyone’s hand as firmly as she can, but even her buzzed mind can see through this - it’s just a way of touching each other casually, just establishing that first contact, “Lexa.”

Lincoln comes back and tosses Clarke her spare keys, giving them both a look. Lexa wraps her palms around her drink, keeping her attention focused on the way the liquid turns gold against the light and pretending she’s not eavesdropping. They talk a little bit more about that Raven girl and Lincoln offers her -  _ them _ , she supposes - fries, but Clarke says they’re fine for now. 

With one last glance to them, Lincoln squeezes Clarke’s hand and goes to the other side of the bar, giving them some sense of privacy. “So,” Clarke turns to her again, “What’s someone like you doing in a place like this?”

“Someone like me?” Lexa echoes back to her, tasting the words and trying to figure out what they mean.

“Come on,” Clarke lets out a chuckle and takes another swig from her beer, running her tongue over her top lip to catch the foam. If it makes Lexa’s stomach sink, she only grips her drink a little harder, “Pencil skirt, high heels that have clearly never seen a bar this dirty, a vibe that lets everyone know you’re better than them. You don’t exactly blend in.”

“What-” Her sincerity takes Lexa aback. She knows she doesn’t really blend in with a crowd like this and she  _ knows _ she’s been out of the whole flirting at bars scene, but that’s hardly a good pick up line, “Why do you think I give off that vibe?”

“Maybe it’s your posture, how you hold yourself,” Clarke tries, giving her a once over that makes the fine hair of her neck stand up, “I don’t know. Not yet anyway. You just do. Why do you think I came over?”

Lexa sips at her drink, letting the liquor burn her tongue before swallowing, giving herself time to think over Clarke’s words. “You came to talk to me because… I think I’m better than everyone else?”

Chuckling at how off her guess is, Clarke leans in slightly, shifting her body so she can press her palm against Lexa’s thigh, “No. I came to talk to you because you  _ are _ better than anyone who’s ever stepped in this bar.”

Her words combined with the warmth from her palm makes it hard for Lexa to get any words out - not that she’d know what to say to that anyway. Instead, she pauses, lets the words fall in between them, taking another sip from her whiskey, “And what brings you here?”

“Shitty roommate,” Clarke states simply, jingling her keys to prove her point before pocketing them, “But I’m here pretty much every day. You still haven’t answered me.”

Lexa plays with her glass for a moment, twirling it on the counter as she studies the woman in front of her. She’s beautiful, that goes almost without saying - and she knows it too, if the way her thumb brushes over Lexa’s thigh is anything to go by. After a moment, Lexa wraps her fingers around her glass and takes another sip from her drink, “I barely know you.”

“That’s the beauty of it,” Clarke points her beer at her before taking another healthy gulp, clearly very fond of the awful taste of it, then she leans in, speaking in a stage whisper, “Sober you can’t blame drunk you for oversharing.”

Once again, Lexa feels laughter bubbling in her chest. It’s an odd feeling. “I don’t have nearly enough alcohol in me for that.”

“Oh, if that’s all it takes,” Clarke sets her beer down and shamelessly winks at Lexa as she walks a few steps to the side and leans over the counter, grabbing four tall shot glasses and a half bottle of tequila. She looks towards Lincoln, who’s too busy making a cocktail to pay attention to her  _ stealing _ , and nods for Lexa to follow her, “Come on.”

“What are you doing?” Lexa asks, out of shock more than anything else, and grips her drink a little tighter.

“Come  _ on _ ,” Clarke insists, looking over her shoulder for a moment before giving Lexa a pointed look, “Bring your whiskey. And my beer.”

With a deep breath, Lexa lets go of whatever is holding her back - either guilt for being an accomplice in theft or guilt for enjoying the company of someone who isn’t her wife, but guilt is definitely the feeling brewing in her chest. She grabs the handle in the beer, surprised at how heavy it is, and climbs down from her stool. Because  _ why not? _

Following Clarke to a booth in the front corner of the bar, Lexa sits down with her back ramrod straight and her hands folded on her lap, watches Clarke pouring half shots in all the glasses, has to keep herself from wondering if those glasses are clean at all. 

“We’ll take turns answering something about ourselves,” Clarke explains, sliding two shot glasses towards Lexa and placing the bottle in between them. They’re sitting across from each other and it feels like they’re too far away after sitting so close at the counter. “If we don’t want to, we take a shot. Deal?”

Lexa eyes the amber liquid sloshing slightly inside the glasses before it settles, trying to remember the last time she did a shot. “Are you trying to get me drunk?”

“For starters,” Clarke purrs in a low voice and it’s unabashedly flirty, almost too blatant for Lexa to keep her eyes on hers, dropping them to her lips. She follows the movement when Clarke takes another swig from her beer, and something lights up in her stomach. “So, why are you in a dive bar and not… I don’t know, somewhere fancier?”

Lexa considers the question, considers answering it. But it’s not the kind of thing to bring up in a bar to someone she knows for less than twenty minutes,  _ hell _ , it’s not something she’d tell people she’s known for years. It’s a can of worms meant to be opened in therapy sessions and nowhere else.

Instead of going for a half truth, Lexa picks up one of the shot glasses in front of her and holds her breath before tossing it back, feeling it burning uncomfortably on the way down. She gives herself a moment to swallow past the new ache in her throat, then quirks an eyebrow. “It’s my turn, I guess?” Clarke nods slowly, as if she’s taken aback that Lexa has thrown in the towel so early in their game, and Lexa leans in closer, “Why are you covered in paint?”

“Oh, shit. Really?” Clarke looks down at her own body to inspect how bad it is, zooming in on the largest patch in her jeans and picking at it. The way she says that shifts the air around them from heavy and flirty to something a little lighter, like the chuckle she lets out, “Uh, I’m an artist. I spent the whole day painting at a friend’s studio.”

Nodding once at that, accepting it as a good enough answer, Lexa settles back and waits for Clarke to ask her something. It’s definitely not what she thought she’d be doing when she left work with a fist curling around her heart, but she’s on the good side of tipsy right now and those gorgeous blue eyes leave little room for her to overthink this.

They go back and forth a few rounds. Clarke has the dirtiest questions, the ones that make Lexa grit her teeth and will herself  _ not _ to blush as she forces herself to answer. But when she makes Clarke back down out of three questions in a row and throw back her shots, Lexa finds herself taking more pride in it that she probably should.

By their fifth shot, one they take together simply because they feel like it, no one losing any questions for it, Clarke has made her way to Lexa’s side of the booth. If the warmth she feels coming from the body pressed up against hers makes Lexa lick her lips and glance down at Clarke’s, she pretends it’s just the booze talking.

The beer is gone and her whiskey has been watered down to nothing, and both of them have a hazed look in their eyes, the world becoming softer with its blurred edges. 

“How about two shots for a dare?” Clarke says, her breath hitting Lexa’s cheek with how close she is, and Lexa frowns as she tries to understand what she means. Her brain is far from sharp by now. “I’ll propose a dare, if you don’t want to do it, you take two shots.”

Lexa shrugs and nods, taking it upon herself to pour each of them another shot, getting ready to drink both of them because she is  _ not _ about to dance on top of the table or go flirt with someone else - which she’s pretty sure is where Clarke is going with it.

But when Clarke decides on what she wants Lexa to do, it almost gives her whiplash with how sharp of a turn her brain has to make to keep up with it, “I dare you to kiss me.”

A beat.

Lexa turns her body until she’s facing Clarke, sparing one look at her lips before closing the distance between them, pressing their lips together. In her drunken haze, Lexa finds her hands moving on their own accord, sneaking up to sink into blonde hair, gripping a slim waist and pulling their bodies closer, closer,  _ closer. _

Her tongue drags across Clarke’s bottom lip, her fingers tighten around her hair, and she deepens the kiss. She feels more than hears the way Clarke moans softly against her and Lexa finds herself answering in kind, her own desires, overlooked for so long, coming up to the surface.

It’s shameful, how easily Lexa sinks into Clarke’s touch. But the way she tugs at her jaw to keep them close, the way her hand slides down to grip at her thigh, the way her tongue swipes on the roof of her mouth - it’s all too much.

They break the kiss a moment before it becomes uncomfortable for everyone else in the bar and Lexa stares at Clarke’s plump lips, still wet from her own lips.

“I live up the street,” Clarke murmurs, her chest heaving as she tries to catch her breath, the invitation clear in the way she drops her hand to Lexa’s stomach.

It’s an easy decision. “Lead the way.”

Despite Clarke’s claims that she’d talk to Lincoln about the tequila bottle and get that settled, Lexa left a few twenties on the table to cover at least some of their heavy drinking before following the blonde outside. The liquor running through her veins makes Lexa just loose enough for her to let her eyes droop to Clarke’s backside, catch the small section of her midriff showing, take in the swell of her behind, swallow past the cotton in her throat.

There’s no point in even trying to mask what this is - they picked each other at a bar to fuck their frustrations away comforted by the knowledge that they’re from such different worlds that their paths won’t cross ever again after this night is over.

They walk the two blocks to Clarke’s building in a comfortable silence that only happens when two people are on the right side of drunk, buzzing with the anticipation of sex.

Clarke doesn’t try to hold hands - which Lexa will forever be thankful for, because she couldn’t, she can’t - or even make small talk, just leads her inside the elevator as she punches her floor. They’re not here to talk about what they do for a living, where they’re from, what their childhoods were like.

Lexa watches Clarke fumble with the locks, the only indication she’s inebriated at all, and step aside to let her in. Usually, Lexa would take her surroundings in and find something to compliment, because that’s the polite thing to do and that’s how she was raised to be.

But she can’t take her eyes off of Clarke.

Clarke tosses her keys in a bowl near the door and drops her bag to the floor, shoving her hands on her back pockets as she turns to Lexa, “Do you want a drink?” 

“No.”

It takes a heartbeat for Lexa to close the distance between them and press their lips together once more, her hands coming up to cup her cheek, to sink into blonde curls, to grab something that can tether her to this moment. Clarke responds in kind, without any pause, wrapping her arm around Lexa’s waist as she pulls them further into her apartment and if Lexa all but tumbles her way forward, she tells herself it’s the booze, not her nerves.

Because she hasn’t done this in far too long. Lexa knows when she last kissed someone - three years to the day, although she can’t bring the exact kiss to the front of her mind, didn’t know it’d be their last one for it to be more than a simple goodbye kiss to make it memorable. 

And she hasn’t done  _ this _ ever - picking up a stranger at a bar and letting them take her to their bed without learning anything about them, opening her legs before she opened her heart. It should feel embarrassing, or at the very least odd, awkward, unnecessary.

But then Clarke opens her mouth against hers, giving her enough room to deepen the kiss, and Lexa’s mind grows too fuzzy for her to feed her self loathing any longer.

She’ll have time for that tomorrow.

For now, she gets lost in the feel of Clarke’s tongue sliding gently against her, in the way she mimics Lexa when she tilts her head, in how her touch grows bolder by the second. 

They break apart once breathing becomes too hard and Lexa gasps for air, feeling like her head is finally,  _ finally _ above water - after weeks, months craving this breath of fresh air. Her hands sink deeper within blonde curls, tangling it around her fingers as they turn into a fist when Clarke moves her mouth from hers to her jaw, her neck, the place where it meets her shoulder. 

Fire simmer low in Lexa’s stomach and she tilts her head to the side, giving Clarke more room to swipe her tongue against her pulse point. She doesn’t have time to wonder if she’ll get a hickey, doesn’t have within her to get mad about it when Clarke bites the taut skin of her neck and soothes it with her tongue, her hand working Lexa’s blouse until it’s free from her skirt and out of her body.

The night air is cold against the warm skin of her stomach, but that’s not what makes goosebumps rise all over her - it’s the way Clarke looks at her, eyes hooded with desire, mapping every inch of her.

Before Lexa can get self conscious under the stare, Clarke’s hands are on her a moment after, dragging lazily down her stomach, over to the side, up her back and down again. It takes her a moment to get a grip on herself, because she’s been so deeply touch starved for so goddamn long she barely manages to keep breathing as Clarke traces the underside of her breasts, scrapes her nails gently down the spanse of her stomach, keeps staring at her like she’s never seen someone this gorgeous.

It’s an ego boost, to say the least, and it’s enough to give Lexa the confidence she needs to reach out for Clarke’s waist and undo the knot holding her oversized tee, pull it over her head, toss it aside. Lexa allows herself a second to take in the full breasts in front of her, begging for a mouth to kiss them, before she reaches for her jeans.

There will be time for gazing and kissing every inch of Clarke when they’re both clad in a lot less clothes.

She fumbles with the button and zipper, her body buzzing with electric energy and making it harder for her to focus, and pulls the jeans down Clarke’s thighs. Clarke steps back to take her shoes off, hopping on one foot so she can pry her sneakers from the other, and it’s nothing short of incredible how that silly sight makes Lexa wet her lips and take a deeper breath in.

Lexa steps down from her heels as well, reaching to her back so she can open her skirt and slide it down her legs, leaving it almost neatly beside her shoes as she watches Clarke all but throw her jeans across the room.

Something inside Lexa aches at the sight of Clarke under soft moon light, it twists and rattles painfully, a voice inside her head telling her that this is wrong, this is  _ cheating _ , that she should grab her things, go home and never look back. 

But Clarke kisses it away, her lips melting against Lexa’s in a synchrony she thought she’s never know again. As the feeling of guilt disappears, Lexa loses herself in Clarke’s touches instead. She lets herself sink in the way their mouths move together, sigh with the light tug Clarke gives to the fine hair of her neck as she presses them closer, skin touching skin.

In a way that is as sudden as long coming, these touches don’t feel enough anymore.

Lexa wraps her arm around Clarke’s waist and backs her to what she hopes is the bedroom. She hadn’t really taken the whole apartment in, can only guess where anything is, and they’re both too caught up on their kiss, on the way each other feel to break apart long enough to make their way to a bed. Their steps are messy and Clarke steers them clear from furniture as best as she can, but they still bump into a couch, a lamp that barely stays upright, a desk that Lexa is pretty sure left a dent on her hip.

By the time Clarke backs up against something, it feels more like she’s pulling Lexa than being guided by her.

Breaking the kiss just long enough to spare a look around and realize they are not in a bedroom, Lexa kisses her way down Clarke’s jaw, moves her mouth to the pulse point on her neck, suck her way down her collarbone. As she reaches out to hold onto the wall to keep her balance, her hand finds glass instead of a brick wall - she’s pressing Clarke against the floor to ceiling windows, the light filtering from the street bright enough to know they could be seen at any time, by a dozen of across-the-street neighbors.

It’s 11pm on a Tuesday and they’re both half naked, but Lexa can’t find within her to care.

She reaches around Clarke and unhooks her bra, taking in the full breasts once the thin fabric covering them is tossed aside. Her breath catches in her throat as she weighs them on her hands, gently and softly, watching the nipples turn into taut peaks, and she picks up where she left off, kissing her way down from her collarbone.

The sounds coming from Clarke are enough to spur Lexa on - gasps and moans and groans that are low enough to shoot heat straight to her stomach. But there’s something primal in the way Clarke sinks her fingers in dark curls, tightening her grip into a fist, keeping her in place for as long as she needs before letting Lexa move on to another spot.

She kisses the soft skin above her breasts, nibbles the valley in between them, drags her tongue lazily around a stiff nipple. It’s enough for Clarke to throw her head back, making the glass rattle behind her, and Lexa moves one hand up to run her thumb over the neglected nipple, drags another down the swell of her stomach, down her inner thighs, up again, pausing at the edge of her panties.

Pausing everything she’s doing, Lexa tilts back and looks up at Clarke, raises one eyebrow in a silent question to know she’s okay with going forward. Clarke all but laughs at her, shimmying out of her panties instead of giving her answer out loud. She leans heavily against the window, spreading her knees, pressing Lexa’s palm to the top of her mound.

Lexa locks her eyes with Clarke’s, watches the blue in them sparkle and turn darker as she slides her hand down. Both of their breaths catch in their throats as Lexa traces one finger up her slit, gathering moisture in it, enough to know Clarke is soaking wet - she’s probably not far from that as well, but it’s good for her ego.

Her touch is light at first, the warmth coming from Clarke enveloping her fingers as she touches her folds and entrance, never getting too close to where Clarke really needs her. It’s nothing if not a power trip to watch the way Clarke clings to her shoulders, shifting her hips to get Lexa closer, inside,  _ anything _ .

When their lips meet again, Lexa finally gives in.

Clarke swipes her tongue hungrily against hers, composure and softness be damned as she moans and curses under her breath. Lexa lets her set the pace for the kiss as she circles her clit, presses two fingers on it, goes back to circling it - it’s a sharp contrast, the demanding kiss against the laziness of her touches.

Sharp breaths, shivering thighs, wetness dripping, blunt nails dragging up shoulder blades; Lexa feels it all and every new nuance that Clarke shows to her makes her feel more confident in her touches.

Right when Clarke begins to rock her hips in a frantic rhythm, trying to find the right angle to get to the release that seems  _ just _ out of her reach, Lexa withdraws. Her fingers are coated in Clarke’s wetness and she drags them across sensitive skin, leaving a trail from her mound to her hip bone. It amuses her as much as it makes the heat pool lower in her stomach to see the way Clarke shivers under her touch, grips her arm and grits her teeth, eyes closed shut as she tethers on the edge of blissful, blinding pleasure. 

Lexa chuckles against Clarke’s temple, placing a kiss to it when she hears a frustrated groan, and turns her around until Clarke’s breasts are pressed against the window, her own body pressed to her back.

It sends a rush down her spine when Clarke tilts her hips back and looks over her shoulder, biting her lip in a mix of desire and desperation. 

Lexa takes her hands, pins them above her head, holds them in place with one hand as she drags the other down her spine. She maps each vertebrae, slowly making her way down, and kisses her shoulder blade, nibbles the skin, soothes it with her tongue.

Only when Clarke is all but trembling under her touch, hips rocking against nothing, her groans growing more and more frustrated by the second, is that Lexa runs her palm over the swell of her butt and adjusts her grip, enters her from the back, two digits at once.

The hiccup that cuts Clarke’s moan halfway through makes Lexa feel an uncomfortable ache settling on the apex of her legs, but it’s the new gush of wetness coating her palm that makes her pick up her pace. She thrusts in and out and in again in the same cadence as Clarke’s moans, curls her fingers to drag it out, lets go of her hands and reaches over to touch her clit and-

Lexa feels Clarke’s walls clenching hard around her fingers, feels before she hears her moan that rumbles and stretches out, feels her body shivering under her embrace.

She keeps her fingers inside, still and waiting until Clarke rides out her orgasm, kissing a path down her neck, her shoulder, her back. It takes a moment for Clarke to catch her breath, her chest pressing against Lexa’s arm with each shallow inhale. With a gentle tug from Clarke on her wrist, Lexa lets go of her, dragging her fingers out, trailing it up her leg to her hip bone.

Clarke turns around, half leaning her weight against the window, half leaving it up to Lexa to keep her from collapsing on her floor as her legs go limp. With a chuckle that rattles past her lips and into Lexa’s core, Clarke whispers an amused  _ ‘Jesus Christ _ ’ before wrapping her arms around her neck. 

Lexa lets herself fall into the kiss for a moment, each lazy swirl of Clarke’s tongue against hers fueling the fire in between her legs - Clarke might be well and sated, but Lexa is still on the verge of bursting free from her own body if Clarke doesn’t touch her soon.

Before she can work through the knot in her throat and start to seriously consider  _ begging _ , Clarke tugs at her arm and gestures to the bedroom, walking ahead. Lexa watches as she walks, hips swinging and shoulders relaxed, and follows her despite her legs locking under her, threatening to give up on her all at once. 

Lexa can't really tell why her hands shaking - if it's nerves about the knowledge of what's about to happen, if it’s her desire grown to something more than she can handle. But she balls them into fists, willing them to be still as they cover the distance to the bedroom. The way Clarke glances back at her, teeth sinking into her bottom lip, her eyes filled with promises, isn't helping her at all.

She reaches back and fumbles with the hooks in her bra as Clarke turns the lights on, pulling them free after a few tries and tossing the piece to the side. It lands on a chair by the bedroom door and, for a moment, she tries to map her way back to her clothes, all scattered around the apartment. 

Her thoughts only get so far. 

Clarke turns around and kisses her, pulling her bottom lip in between her teeth, pulling her further into the bedroom. It knocks the air out of Lexa’s lungs, and she can’t do anything but follow as Clarke grasps her elbow for leverage, trailing her palm up until she finds her exposed breasts. Nifty fingers trace the underside, drawing patterns up and around it until Lexa is gasping for air, reaching up for Clarke’s waist to keep her balance and-

It's all too much. The gentle tugs on the stiff peaks combined with Clarke swiping her tongue over the roof of her mouth leaves Lexa aching, chasing her lips for more, pulling her closer against her. 

There's a tug of war going on inside of her, two sides pulling at her until she can't decide who she wants to win. She wants this, she wants to lie in bed with Clarke and let her have her way with her, wants to wake up in a mess of tangled limbs and bed hair. But a small part of her still clings to her wife, still thinks this is somehow ruining her memory, tainting what they had together. And there's still time to go, still time to repent and go home.

But Clarke breaks the kiss with a soft moan, cups Lexa’s breast firmly and tilts her head to the side, kissing a path across her jawline. The sound brings memories from minutes ago, images of Clarke coming crashing down around her fingers floods her mind’s eye and it leaves Lexa drenched, any sorrow or guilt washing away when their lips meet again.

Their kiss grows rough and passionate, teeth clashing against teeth, hands clinging to warm flesh, wanting more and more. Lexa doesn't even realize they're moving until the back of her knees hit the bed and they part once more, both taking a moment to catch their breath. There's no going back, there never was going back - from the moment Lexa laid eyes on Clarke, she could never go back.

Clarke guides Lexa to bed wordlessly, commanding her with her eyes alone, nudging her gently until she’s resting on the pillows. It’s a new experience, being on her back, but Lexa can’t find within her to complain when she sees Clarke crawling to bed, looking like a lioness stalking her prey. 

Feeling the weight of Clarke’s body on top of her erases any and all thoughts from her mind. Suddenly, it's all Clarke, and the way their thighs fit together, the feeling of their stomachs pressed against one another, the heaviness of her breasts, the rhythm of her heart, the ragged breath hitting her collarbone as she makes her way down the length of her.

It’s overwhelming and she can’t think straight, can't focus on anything but how Clarke’s mouth feels against her neck, soft lips mapping their way to her collarbone, tongue swirling over spots she didn’t even know could be sensitive. Her mind is a mess of desire and lingering guilt, and she needs to stop  _ thinking _ .

Grounding herself with one hand clutching the sheets tightly, Lexa lowers her other hand and grabs a hold of Clarke’s hair, light enough that she knows it won’t hurt her, hard enough to tug at it and guide her down. But she feels Clarke smiling against her breasts, feels more than hears the way she clicks her tongue to say  _ “not yet _ ”. Lexa grunts in answer, a grunt that becomes a soft moan when those same lips wrap around her nipple, sucking it and rolling it in between her teeth.

When she moves from one breast to the other, leaving a trail of love bites connecting both of her nipples, Lexa wants to say she’s not hers to mark, wants to find a commanding voice to say it in. But when she opens her mouth, a gasp comes out and her fingers wrap tighter on Clarke’s hair, spurring her on.

By the time Clarke deems like she’s had enough fun with her breasts and kisses her way down her belly, Lexa feels her whole body tensed, a taut string pulling at her every nerve. She watches Clarke dragging her tongue beside her navel, pressing a kiss to the fabric of her panties before pulling them down, and Lexa barely has it in her to lift her hips, to do anything at all.

It should be illegal to have eyes that blue, Lexa muses as Clarke gently grabs one of her legs, kissing the side of her knee, up her inner thigh, settles in the space in between without ever breaking eye contact. 

Lexa holds her gaze for a moment longer, but shuts her eyes closed when Clarke swipes her tongue over her slit. Her hands turn into fists, clutching the sheets under her, pulling at them as Clarke works her tongue in her.

It’s been a  _ while _ since Lexa had as much as touched another person. And Clarke knows what she’s doing.

Keeping her eyes closed and lips pressed shut, Lexa adjusts her legs until Clarke has enough room and lets her mind go blank as she focuses on the way Clarke laps at her entrance, licks her folds,  _ finally _ gets to her clit. She presses her palms over her mound, pressing down and upwards - either to keep her in place or to put a strain in her sensitive nerves, Lexa can’t tell, but it’s working for both.

Clarke places her lips around her clit and sucks, lightly enough for it to make Lexa see fucking stars, then presses her tongue flat against it and- and Lexa is coming.

It washes over her too quickly for her to appreciate it. 

It leaves her boneless and frustrated, more wound up than she was before.

As her breathing slows down, Lexa throws one arm over her eyes, blocking the world for a moment. It’s embarrassing, to come this fucking quick and as mellow as she did. She can’t help but wonder if it’s a sign - from her body, from the universe, from the fucking  _ beyond _ \- that she shouldn’t have stepped in that bar to begin with. Maybe she should have gone home, drank alone and cried herself to sleep like the grown up she is, instead of trying to get rid of her ghosts by hooking up with a stranger like a horny college kid.

Before she finds the strength within herself to get up and find her clothes, the courage stare at Clarke after this knowing her face is ablaze, Lexa feels lips kissing her thigh, hair spilling her her waist as a head rests on her hip bone. Before she can put two and two together, Clarke touches her again - a single digit drawing circles around her entrance, collecting her wetness, not quite daring to go inside.

Lexa lets her arm fall and looks at Clarke, who seems all too focused on the apex of her legs to notice how much she’s blushing. “You don’t have to,” she says once she realizes what Clarke intends, half heartedly trying to shimmy away from her.

“I want to,” Clarke whispers against her hip bone as she presses a kiss on it, her voice low and hoarse, “After the way you made me come…” she lets her words hang in the air as she smiles, like the memory is still too vivid in her mind for her to speak about it, “I want you to feel just as good.”

For a moment, she stares at Clarke, tries to find the words to rebuke that argument, tries to lie and say she’s good as it is. But she feels a finger sliding inside of her, her walls pulsating around it for a last time. Then she slides a second one without any trouble and Lexa realizes she’s too  _ wet _ to even try to be convincing.

Clarke presses the underside of her tongue against her clit and Lexa jolts her hips up, still too sensitive, begging for more of the same. Her fingers pump in and out of her, slowly at first and picking up speed, erasing any trace of her last orgasm, working her up steadily until her mouth is hanging open and her hips rock to meet her movements. Lexa gasps and whispers low curses as Clarke curls her fingers within her, brushes her thumb over her clit, brings her to the edge and keeps her there for longer than she can fathom.

It leaves Lexa speechless. Now, she feels it building up her back, a pressure that tightens her hips and makes her quiver, makes her legs shake, makes fire come to life in her lungs. Now, she does feel it reaching within her soul and plucking everything loose in its wake.

She doesn’t come down immediately, but Clarke keeps her fingers within her until she does, until her toes uncurl and the tingling in her whole body subdues.

Breathing out and letting her whole body melt into the sheets, Lexa lets a smile crawl to her lips. She does feel  _ good _ now and it doesn’t matter that it took her two tries to get it. 

Clarke kisses her way up to her lips, stealing a lazy kiss before lying down beside her. It takes a moment for Lexa to gather her wits once more, to find the strength to open her eyes - she feels exhausted, like she’s run a whole marathon and is only now resting. Her legs certainly feel like jello.

She doesn’t want to move, not yet, but she feels Clarke turning on her side, reaching up for to her waist for a half hug. It makes her stomach clench and the tension cling to her again. So before Clarke can find her and pull her close, Lexa wills herself to get up, no matter how unsteady her legs feel.

Lexa cannot do cuddling - not if she wants to stay sane.

“You don’t have to go,” Clarke says in a low, practiced voice, her hand resting where Lexa had been mere moments ago. The dim light hits her body in a beautiful way and if the circumstances weren’t these screwed up ones, Lexa wouldn’t think twice about curling up beside her. But she can’t.

She puts more distance in between them, walking to the feet of the bed and grabbing her panties, slipping them on before she looks up at Clarke - she has a hickey on her neck, and Lexa curses at herself, knowing she has matching one on her chest. “Yeah, I do. This was fun.”

It’s hardly the right thing to say, but Clarke smiles at her before turning on her back again, stretching her arms up above her head and letting out a low groan as her back cracks, “It was more than fun.”

Taking that as an end for their conversation, Lexa heads to the living room in search of her clothes. She puts them on as she finds them - her bra is hooked on a chair by the door, her blouse somehow ended up on the coffee table, her skirt in a heap by her heels. She knows she looks disheveled with her wrinkled blouse sticking out of her skirt and hair in knots, but at the very least, she can be sure she won’t run into anyone she knows in this neighborhood.

Right when she opens the door to leave, Lexa hears a noise and looks up, finds Clarke leaning against the bedroom door. She’s butt naked and very comfortable with it, her blonde hair looking insane and incredibly sexy at the same time. “Should I bother asking for your phone number?”

There’s a sense of finality to her tone, like she knows the answer and just needed to get her question out there. Lexa doesn’t bother to soften the blow, “No.”

She closes the door behind her and tries to work her stubborn curls into a braid as she waits in the curb for the cab she called to pick her up. It’s less a braid and more a tangled mess with a knot at the bottom when she dives into the back seat of the car, guilt threatening to swallow her whole.

Lexa keeps her mind busy, jumping from one item on her to-do list for tomorrow to another as she makes her way through unfamiliar streets until they become familiar again, making a game plan much more detailed than she normally would.

She has a meeting with her new head of finances first thing tomorrow morning - or rather, in a few hours - and makes a mental note to give her a tour, maybe ask Gustus to join, since he’s the one who’s organized the whole ordeal. Then she has to go to a law firm they have partnered with only a few months ago, to pretend she knows how to work out an issue that's the reason why they hired a financial analyst in the first place. She’ll answer emails during lunch and try to set aside the afternoon to read over the operation reports she’s been neglecting so she can both get ahead on that particular task and handle the hangover that is bound to happen.

All this insane step-by-step planning is what keeps her from spilling all the contents in her stomach, as the liquor swishes dangerously whenever the cab makes a turn, bile rising to her throat.

Regret makes her skin crawl, her stomach lurch, her eyes water.

Lexa makes it to her apartment with tears carving paths into her day old makeup, her eyeliner smudged with how much she’s tried to keep them from rolling down.

She’s unbuttoning her shirt the moment she walks in, kicking her shoes off by the door and throwing her keys on the console table. She grits her teeth as she walks by the mirror on the far wall - her reflection mocks her, the light giving focus to everything she wants to forget. Her shirt goes into the hamper along with her bra, and she peels her skirt and panties only to throw them in there as well. She’ll wash them, keep herself from burning them, stash them in a corner of her closet, never look at them again.

Her braid has started to untangle itself free, dark locks falling to her face as she turns on the shower head. She makes the water as hot as it’ll go.

Lexa takes a moment to look at her reflection on the bathroom mirror, stares at it until the mirror clouds over with the water steam. She sees the hickey on her collarbone, a matching one on her stomach, the insides of her thighs covered in little bites that she surely enjoyed less than an hour ago. Her lips are swollen and sensitive, bruised by kisses that went from passionate to soft and more gentle then it had the right to be.

She can still taste Clarke.

Grabbing her toothbrush and putting as much toothpaste on it as it can handle, Lexa brushes her teeth. She keeps brushing until minty foam is dripping down her chin, burning her cheeks, making her eyes water with how fucking  _ fresh _ it is. She spits it out, brushes her tongue until she dry heaves, takes a gulp of mouthwash and swishes it, gargles it for long enough to make sure she won’t be able to taste anything for a whole day.

She can still fucking taste Clarke.

Lexa gets in the shower, the hot water burning her shoulders, but she doesn’t dare making it any colder. She needs the hot water, needs it to soak in and open her pores so she can scrub herself raw. But when she pours soap on her loofah and runs it forcefully through every inch of her body, all it does is remind her of where she’s been kissed, where she’s been touched by someone who isn’t her wife for the first time in over a decade.

When a sob comes up her chest and scratches at her throat, Lexa lets herself sink to the floor.

It takes her more time than she wants to admit to peel herself up. But eventually, she steps out of the shower with her hair squeaky clean, her whole body burning after being scrubbed so thoroughly, and her eyes stinging, the salt in her tears mixing with exhaustion and emotional turmoil.

She forces herself to drink a glass of water and some aspirin, even though she knows fully well it’s not going to be nearly enough to make herself feel half decent in the morning, and falls into bed over the covers, naked and aching with something that feels bigger than herself.

Her alarm wakes her up a few hours later and each ring feels like a new dagger plunging itself into her brain. Lexa rolls out of bed when sitting up feels like a herculean task and drags herself to her closet, grabbing the first pantsuit she can find. If she can bend down to slip her pants on without passing out, she’s pretty confident she can make it through the day.

Regret about sleeping with someone she met at a bar when her wedding band still rests comfortably on her ring finger has morphed into a monster she can’t control. 

She goes through the motions of getting ready in a painstakingly slow pace. Her hair is tangled after sleeping wet and unbrushed, and Lexa can’t do much more than roll it into a neat and tight bun on the base of her head. But doing that leaves her face open and clear for every person she runs into to know she had cried herself to sleep like a weakling. 

After forty five minutes of applying concealers and contouring her face, Lexa takes a step back to admire her handiwork. It’s three times longer than she usually bothers to spend on makeup, but she looks like she had a restful and long night of sleep, even if she doesn’t feel it at all.

Grabbing a water bottle from the fridge and her sunglasses, Lexa bolts out the door. 

She had  _ plans _ . She would get mini muffins to apologize for being a bitch yesterday - and today, because her temper is short even with herself, let alone others - and get to office early. She would review her new employee’s resumé along with notes Gustus left her during breakfast, be presentable and ready for the meeting. Now she’d be lucky to make it to the meeting on time.

Forcing herself to take steady sips from her water despite how it makes her stomach burn, Lexa ignores the glare the cab driver shoots at her when she asks him to stop by Starbucks before heading to their destination. It’ll make her  _ extra _ late. Great.

If only she had gotten drunk at home, like a responsible adult… Then she wouldn’t have slept with anyone, and her car wouldn’t have been halfway across the city, and she wouldn’t be late.

She orders a caramel macchiato with triple shot and  _ all _ their muffins. Her coffee does wake her up considerably and puts a damper on her headache - it still hurts by the time she makes it to the building, but at least it’s a constant ache, not throbbing.

“Morning, Gaia,” Lexa mumbles half heartedly as she crosses the hallway and stops by her secretary’s desk, perching the oversized box on a corner, “Could you take these down to the lounge? Apology muffins for being a bitch yesterday, and possibly today.” Then she settles a small bag on the side, “Blueberry scone for you,” she nudges it towards Gaia, almost proud of herself of having remembered this is her favorite, “Because God knows you took the brunt of it.”

“Good morning, Ms. Woods. Will do,” Gaia says, and the pronoun still stings - she wasn’t meant to be  _ Ms _ . ever again. Then she turns away from the pastries, dutifully grabbing a handful of sticky notes from a corner and handing them to her. “These are your messages. You have a few emails to answer, all in the  _ legal _ folder. And, Ms. Griffin is waiting for you inside.”

Checking her watch, Lexa sighs. She’s twenty minutes late.

Lexa asks for some coffee for them and thanks Gaia, making a point to be polite with her secretary. No matter how annoyed she was with herself and how even the way the notes stuck to the back of her phone now made her want to rips it all in tiny pieces, Gaia didn’t deserve to go through the same thing she had gone yesterday.

Opening the door to her office, Lexa steps inside with apologies falling from her lips. “Ms. Griffin, I’m really sorry for keeping you waiting. I had some hiccups in my morning, I’m usually much more punctual than this.”

The woman settles her phone down and straightens up, lengthening her spine before getting up. All Lexa see is blonde hair neatly combed falling over one shoulder, and she looks away for a moment, quickly putting her bag and planner away on a table by the entryway before meeting her new head of finances.

“There’s nothing to worry about. I’m sure you had a difficult morning,” the words find Lexa before she looks up and her blood turning into ice, little crystals keeping her heart from beating.

That voice.

Lexa  _ knows _ that voice.

She’s heard that voice claim for a higher power as she made her come up against a window.

Lexa blinks, willing herself to look at the woman, a small part of her believing her hungover brain is making up things that shouldn’t be, that couldn’t possibly be. But when she looks up, she sees the same bright blue eyes staring at her, with the same amused glint that they had yesterday when they were doing shots at a bar.

It can’t be. But somehow, it is.

Taking a sharp breath in to keep herself from collapsing, Lexa watches Clarke for a moment, as if to make sure it  _ really _ is her. Her sneakers have given way to sensible heels that elongate her legs, the same legs Lexa clawed at and pulled impossibly closer to her less than ten hours ago. Her paint stained jeans are gone as is her oversized tee, replaced by a silky blouse and a pencil skirt much like the one Lexa had on last night, the one that Clarke had made fun of.

Lexa would never have guessed they were the same person, because the Clarke she met at the bar looked as far away from a  _ finance specialist _ as one could be.

She wouldn’t have believed her own eyes if it weren’t for the dark red patch on her neck, barely concealed under makeup, in the exact same spot Lexa had left a hickey on.

“Clarke  _ Griffin _ ,” Clarke says, crossing the office until she’s only two feet away from Lexa, and reaches out her hand for her to take - which Lexa does, and prays to whatever god listening that Clarke can’t feel the tremble in her hand. “I look forward to working under you,” she adds, with a smirk that leaves no room for interpretation.


	2. Chapter 2

To say Clarke has a hangover would be a stretch.

Her eyes are bloodshot and there’s a headache lurking behind the corner, just enough to have her put an extra shot of espresso in her morning coffee. Caffeine and Ibuprofen are godsends for any headache — be it a stress migraine or to blame on the shots she did the night before her first day at a job that could shift her entire career.

Clarke has had enough sleepless nights to know the headache she's willing away right now has more to do with how little she slept than anything else. Three hours too little, to be exact.

Her plans for the night had involved ordering Thai take out, spending a good hour with her vibrator to take the edge off and falling asleep way before midnight.

It hadn't been her wisest move, to drink with a pretty woman she knew she'd try to take home the moment she had laid eyes on her. It hadn't been her wisest move to take said woman home, to her bed, to her arms.

But by God, had she taken the edge off.

The ache in between her legs is proof, the memory that comes with it swirling something in her stomach — long fingers curling inside her, making her toes curl along, her fingers grasping helplessly at the windows for any sort of purchase as the heel of a very experienced hand put pressure on her clit.

It took her breath away in the morning, when she woke up in an empty bed that had been too warm for comfort just a few hours ago, and it takes her breath now, as she climbs the stairs to her new place of employment. She tells herself it's because she's not as in shape as she wants to be, and it's a white lie she doesn't mind believing in.

After checking in with the building receptionist and making sure she had the right floor, Clarke headed towards the elevators. She had been at the office once, for her interview with the then head of finance, but better safe than wandering around for half an hour completely lost. She didn't need that.

Pressing the button for the floor she needs, Clarke sends a silent thank you to the heavens when the door closes and there's no one in the elevator with her. She needs a few moments alone. Not only to slip into the part of an economist, with a straight spine and a sober look to her, but also to check her handiwork on her neck.

Her one night stand had left her with not one, not two, but four hickeys down the column of her neck. Three of them were small and easier to cover up, just tiny bite marks that didn't fully heal in the handful of hours since the skin was pulled in between teeth. But one, right above the dip of her collarbone, is a deep red that only a combination of teeth, tongue and lips can make — she vaguely remembers how it brought out moans, her fingers sinking into dark curls, willing it to go on for longer

But still, hickeys? Was Lexa fourteen?

Her coverage was _just_ good enough for employees who were meeting their new boss for the first time to mistake it as a shadow, or maybe a birthmark. It would not save her from the teasing Raven would put her through when she got back to their apartment.

Making a mental note to check how the make up on her neck is holding up before she finds somewhere to buy lunch from, Clarke steps out of the elevator as the doors open. She stands right at the edge of the marble floors and takes in the place where she'll be spending her days — and possibly some evenings, if this is like any other business she's ever worked at — in.

She knew by the outside of the building that it'd have floor to ceiling windows that let in enough sunshine for the fluorescent overhead lights to be turned off for most of the day. But this high up, the morning sun comes through almost lazily, casting the open floor plan into soft light. It makes her look forward to her morning coffee, to meetings where forecasting results feel riveting.

In three large, confident steps, she finds herself in front of the reception. "Good morning, Sierra," Clarke greets her effortlessly, sounding like an old acquaintance after a quick glance towards the name tag on her blouse. It earns her a side look and a raised eyebrow that quickly fades to a polite smile, "I'm Clarke Griffin, the new finance specialist."

Recognition flashes on Sierra's face and she confirms it on whatever she pulls up on her computer. Clarke doesn't have to say she needs to meet the CEO, some Alexandria Woods whose picture she couldn't find anywhere online. That seems to be implied as the receptionist answers her, "You'll need to find Gaia, she'll tell you about Ms. Woods. All the way down the hallway, to your left."

Clarke thanks her with a smile — if anything, she knows being polite to the people she works with from the get go makes her life so much easier in the long run — and follows the directions, taking in the sights as she makes her way to Gaia and Ms. Woods.

As she walks in long strides, Clarke notices more details. To her right, it’s all light and airy, the office plants soaking up the morning sun as the employees chatter from the desks organized in neat rows, getting ready for the day. To her right, she finds burned cement walls with wooden slats in certain points, splitting up the offices that hide behind modern doors. It’s a dichotomy that stirs something inside her.

No one as much as glances towards her, too busy catching up on office gossip, no doubt. Clarke doesn’t mind it, prefers it that way even — she’d very much like a more formal introduction to a simple wave.

Just like Sierra said, she finds Gaia at the end of the hallway, hidden behind the wall to the last office. Clarke goes through the same motions of introducing herself, making sure to use Gaia’s name in conversation. She’s told Ms. Woods is late, which seems to be an unusual occurrence, and less than three minutes later, she’s waiting in an office.

Clarke takes a seat in one of the empty chairs — high quality and _so_ supportive of her lower back that she considers how practical it'd be to use one of these with her easel — and takes in the room for lack of anything else to do. As CEO offices go, it's modern and sleek, black and white with a hint of gray for comfort. There's a bookshelf on one wall, a small bar built into it. The other wall has a couch against it, an abstract painting hanging above it. Glass walls that look into the main working area where people are starting to pile up, floor to ceiling windows on the other wall.

And… that's it. There's no real warmth here, no plants, no portraits, not even a good non-fiction book on the shelf.

It takes her a few minutes to get restless. She's never been good at staying still anyway, and her expectations for this morning had her meeting the people she'd work with five minutes ago. Clarke glances at her watch — she's been sitting there for ten minutes already, just mindlessly watching people get to their desks and start their day — and considers picking up her planner and sketching something on the blank pages on the back.

In the end, her phone seems like the lesser of two evils. It'd be easier to explain to her new boss that she's making her way through her emails and answering what she can, than to say she was so bored she started to doodle the office plants she's seen on her way here.

Clarke has only just pressed send on her second haphazardly constructed email when silence falls in the office.

The change from lively chatter to being able to hear a pin drop is so abrupt that Clarke can't help but look up from her phone, study what's waiting for her.

Smiles had given way to somber expressions of focus that couldn't possibly be real, the shuffling of papers the only sound coming from the now all occupied desks when most of the employees were casually leaning against them two minutes ago. The reason for that change soon becomes obvious, as the heels against marble becomes louder.

At first, all Clarke sees is a take out box from Starbucks — it's like she ordered everything they had with some extra whipped cream on top. It's only when the woman makes a turn towards Gaia's desk that Clarke can get a good look at her new boss's face.

Her entire body goes rigid, even her heart slowing its beating almost to a stop.

Alexandria Woods. _Lexa_ Woods.

Fuck.

 _Fuck_.

Clarke forgets how to breathe. She watches the woman whose name she's moaned as she clung to her back and moved in sync with her hand less than ten hours ago, watches her talking to Gaia, offering her a small smile. The hickey on her throat seems to throb, the memory of those lips on her burning through any logical thought.

With a monumental effort, Clarke sucks in a breath, loosens her death grip on her phone. It's fine. She can handle this.

The office door swings open a second after Clarke has managed to school her features into something neutral, half hiding behind her own hair as she pretends to be fully immersed in her phone.

“Ms. Griffin, I’m really sorry for keeping you waiting. I had some hiccups in my morning, I’m usually much more punctual than this,” Lexa offers, not really looking at her as she piles her things on a small table by the door.

Clarke settles her phone down and straightens up, trying to muster as much dignity as she can before getting up — force of habit is the only thing that keeps her from melting into her chair. “There’s nothing to worry about. I’m sure you had a difficult morning."

The words tumble out of her tongue before she can think them through, leaning dangerously close to a teasing tone. Her own shock has worn off and while her initial instinct was to run away from the entire corporate world and live off her paintings, it's amusing to see all the color wash away from Lexa's face.

It's even more amusing when Clarke can so easily remember how flushed Lexa had been when her back was arched, her breasts pressed to Clarke's mouth, desire coloring her neck, her cheeks, the tip of her ears.

Blinking the memory away, Clarke sees the way Lexa's chest rises and falls in trembling breaths — it's almost comforting to know they were both slapped with the force of seven trucks by seeing each other in the morning after their one night stand. She can almost see the gears turning at full speed in her brain, trying to connect the dots. She sees her eyes darting to the dark spot on her neck, and Clarke knows Lexa has the same memory running through her mind.

Lexa seems rooted to the spot, so Clarke crosses the office and offers her hand. “Clarke _Griffin_. I look forward to working under you,” she introduces herself as professionally as she can manage, even if her word choice seems doomed today, but the slight tremble in Lexa's hand makes her smirk.

A beat, and then let go of each other's hand just a split second before the handshake becomes something else.

As the words sink in, Lexa — should Clarke call her Ms. Woods even after having her clit in her mouth? — draws her shoulders back, her eyes narrowing, "What is that supposed to mean?"

It means Clarke wants a repeat of last night, wants Lexa's fingers buried within her again.

"Your reputation precedes you, Ms. Woods," Clarke wets her lips with the tip of her tongue and she can't even convince herself that it's related to whatever hangover she could be nursing. Lexa darts her eyes to her lips, down to her neck again, and then back to her eyes. Clarke could swear her pupils are larger than they were a moment before, "That is all."

Lexa works her jaw from one side to the other, then lifts her chin up — Clarke remembers that gesture from the bar, from the moment she asked if Lexa wanted to go back to her apartment — and she's sure she'll be fired before even stepping foot into her new office.

But at the end, Lexa simply holds her gaze for a moment longer before pointing to the chair Clarke had been sitting on less than two minutes ago, "If you'd take a seat, I'd like to go over some things before showing you to your office."

There isn't much in life that could have prepared Clarke for this moment, so she does what she's told and sits back on the chair. She makes sure her posture is a touch straighter than usual, her hands folded on top of her crossed legs — it's how she'd behave if she _hadn't_ slept with her boss the night before her first day.

Even thinking those words makes something curl in her stomach, something she doesn't dare to try and name. Not now, anyway. There will be time and alcohol to deal with that later, and good lord, Raven and Octavia will have a field day when they find out Clarke is already the office slut and she hasn't even turned her work computer on yet.

Her entire body is in high alert, the adrenaline from moments earlier still coursing through her veins, refusing to let her heart settle to a more appropriate rate. It's the reason why Clarke can hear the deep, controlled breath that comes from somewhere behind her before Lexa re-enters her line of sight, crossing the office and making her way behind her desk.

It goes to show that, despite how sterile her office is and how feared she seems to be among her employees, Lexa is human after all.

In one fluid motion, Lexa sits on her chair — a sleek, modern one that goes well with the rest of the office, must cost a fortune and can’t be anything but ergonomical — and swivels towards the desk, grabbing some papers from a drawer. Her movements are nothing if not elegant, exuding all power she sure holds.

The contrast with last night is striking.

Clarke had found her hunched over a drink, clearly nursing more than just a whisky. As the night grew older, she had learned how Lexa looked with an alcohol-induced smile tugging her lips, with doubt and desire battling behind a stoic expression before desire won out, with green eyes turned glassy once Clarke let her bra fall. Clarke had chased a blush down Lexa's stomach, had watched pleasure turn her limp, had run her fingers through loose curls as fingers dived deep within her.

And now, Lexa looks like she has a metal rod where her spine should be, her face impassive as she skims the stapled papers she's holding, her hair in an almost impeccable up-do.

“Ms. Griffin,” Lexa’s voice jolts Clarke out of her reverie, forcing her to blink the memories away and focus on the words _her boss_ is saying. “Ordinarily, I would have already gone over your resume in my own time, but–”

“Hiccups,” Clarke interrupts with an explanation of her own before Lexa even starts the acrobatics it’d take to put the reason why she’s not on top of her to-do list in a professional way. Her smile wobbles between sympathetic and teasing, a fine line she wants to keep treading as much as she wants to steer clear of it.

It’s not easy, being on Lexa’s side of this equation.

Even putting aside the fact that she’s the woman running the company Clarke is now a part of, it doesn’t take a genius to realize Lexa doesn’t have casual one night stands on the regular. 

From the way she held herself as Clarke struggled to get the keys into the lock to the slight shake of her hands when they found their way to the underside of an oversized tee, that much was clear. Clarke had to stop and check in on her a few times, trying to make sense of her — nothing but want in her eyes, in the way her mouth seeked sensitive spots; breath a little too shallow, palms a little too clammy.

Once instinct took over and whatever part of her brain rationalizing her decisions had shut down, Lexa’s breath had another reason to become shallow, to match Clarke’s as they both climbed their way to the top. But the bashful way Lexa had gathered her clothes and averted her eyes from Clarke’s naked body was proof that she had gone too far, strayed from her own moral path enough that she’d be having trouble falling asleep.

Clarke is no stranger to regretting seeking comfort in someone new every weekend, waking up with a different perfume in the morning and storing that scent somewhere in her brain, getting a spike of anxiety whenever she finds it somewhere else, in the wild, outside the confines of dirty sheets and low lights. 

Still, the closest Clarke has ever gotten to _this_ situation before was back in college. A drunk Friday afternoon turned into evening and she woke up on Saturday morning, in a sorority bed, drowning in pastel pink and light grey, blonde hair and soft skin. Awkward kiss goodbye before her roommate woke up, and she thought that was it — only to come to her accounting class on Monday and find the same blonde hair tied in a high ponytail sitting in the first row.

Except she could very easily dodge a classmate for half a semester until she got over herself. Lexa, on the other hand, couldn’t ignore her.

Her interruption earns Clarke a raised eyebrow that morphs into a sharp nod. “Hiccups,” Lexa agrees and her shoulders relax slightly at the seeming end of that particular conversation.

With another cursory glance at the lines on her resume, Lexa sets it down in front of her and clasps her hands on top of it. Clarke is pretty sure her boss couldn’t even tell what college she had gone to.

“As I’m sure Gustus discussed with you, your main goal for now is to adjust our finances to the rapid growth of the market and the company itself,” Lexa has fallen back to what’s no doubt a practiced stand. She is, after all, the CEO of this company. She wouldn’t have gotten there if she didn’t know how to handle herself during uncomfortable situations. “You’ll be running the finance department, and I’ll introduce you to our investment counsel and finance manager in a moment. I assume the terms of your salary and benefits are already settled.”

“They are,” Clarke nods, and she finds herself falling back to her own status quo — she’s a goddamn economist with years of experience behind her and a reputation of bringing companies back from the dead. She has dealt with so many angry white men that talking business with the woman she had a one night stand with shouldn’t even cast a shadow on her work ethic.

But then, Lexa starts telling her about the company.

Clarke has done her research. She’s learned as much about Polis Inc. as it’s possible without having access to internal files. They have enough guides and dossiers that Clarke had spent a good weekend going through it all, and even had Raven join in when the website mentioned machine learning.

“Polis Inc. is a litigation finance company that uses AI to evaluate potential investments instead of relying purely on human resources and guesswork,” Lexa starts, quoting the blurb for the company almost verbatim.

They fund both portfolio and single cases, contingencial and hourly, boutique law firms and Am Law 100 counsel. Most of their clients are small and medium businesses that can’t go against multimillion dollar companies without losing their last dime. They cover legal fees and litigation expenses. 

They’re working with two hundred people in three floors of this building, three hundred and fifty more working remotely or in associate firms. They began as a startup with twelve people, now they’re going neck-to-neck with the major litigation finance companies in the country.

Ten million dollars is their maximum per lawsuit. Pay back comes from the client's recovery when the lawsuit ends. Funding is non-recourse. 

It’s an info dump.

Clarke doesn’t retain half the numbers and law jargons Lexa is spewing out because one, she has most of that written down and memorized — the most foreign words even have little arrows connecting them to their meanings — and two, Lexa looks far too good for Clarke to really pay attention to the legal aspect of post funding.

Although her language is a tad more technical than Clarke cares for so early in the morning, it’s clear that Lexa really cares about what they do here — making sure everyone has a fighting chance, leveling up the battle ground in David v. Goliath cases. 

It makes her want to know more. Not about the firm itself, but about Lexa. 

Has she been here since the beginning? Is she a lawyer or just a very law-enthusiast business person? Did she dream of working in a place like this since she were a child? When she works late into the night, do the city lights keep her company?

When Lexa’s attention leaves Clarke in favor of grabbing some more up to date numbers, Clarke lets her eyes wander to her jawline, her long neck, delicate curves under the tailored blouse. 

If she squints, Clarke can almost see the matching bluish purple hickey on Lexa’s neck. She had cursed Lexa a handful of times in the morning as she tried to cover up the marks on her, desperately trying to look more professional than she felt. But now, the sensitive spots on her neck — and her chest, her stomach, her inner thigh — makes her feel closer to Lexa than she should.

“– they can give you a better overview of how finances are going.” Clarke only catches the tail of whatever Lexa had been saying. It’s probably not the best practice, to ignore her boss so blatantly on her first day. “Let me show you to your office.”

Following Lexa’s lead, Clarke grabs her bag and walks the distance to the door in long strides. If she lags behind slightly, Clarke blames it on how long Lexa’s legs are — an objective observation, nothing more to it.

The second floor is more or less an exact replica of downstairs, with less cubicles and more offices, glass walls becoming solid concrete ones. Despite herself, Clarke hopes these offices have the same floor to ceiling windows, that hers faces west.

People who are mingling in the small sitting area don’t seem half as frightened of Lexa as the ones Clarke watched grow pale with each click of her heels. Instead, these greet her with nods and curt _good morning_ s — polite enough to show they have a good work relationship, but not nearly warm enough for it to be anywhere near friendly.

“This is Clarke Griffin, the new head of finances,” Lexa introduces Clarke to the small group, but they don’t bother introducing themselves or give her a chance to greet them one by one. After a lull, Lexa turns to walk down the open area towards the offices, “Is Gustus in his office?”

Without giving them a chance to answer, Lexa strides towards what Clarke assumes is Gustus office, but it ends up being an unoccupied one — with a west facing window.

“This is yours,” Lexa says as she opens the door fully and gestures for Clarke to walk in before her, “You should have your plaque installed by next week at the latest. Keys are in the lock.”

It’s a simple office, although spacious enough. The sleek and modern furniture from downstairs translate well here, if a little more toned down. There’s a desk with a computer on it next to a corded phone, two guest chairs and an executive one closer to the window. A compact file cabinet rests on a corner against the floor to ceiling window, a black steel and light wood shelving unit with shelves that vary in length and height covers the opposite wall.

The small details give away just how successful this company is. 

Setting her bag on the desk, Clarke runs her fingers across the desk and inspects the shelving unit more closely. She could bring some plants to put on it, before it ends up filled to the brim with color coded binders and scattered reminders of her day-to-day routine.

“Griffin?” The sound of her last name makes her wonder just how long she’s been staring at a goddamn shelf, and she turns to find Lexa raising an eyebrow at her. “I’ll introduce you to your team.”

Nodding, Clarke grabs the keys to her new office and closes the door behind her. Only then she notices that Lexa never actually made it into the room at all.

With the diplomacy that comes with years of introducing random people before throwing them in a batting cage to fight against mythological beasts together, Lexa introduces Clarke to her core team. 

Roan Azgeda, Marcus Kane and Eric Jackson are names Clarke knows _of_ , but is only now putting a face to them — Polis Inc. is extremely transparent in what they do, but no one will find portraits of business suits in blurred backgrounds on their website. Gustus Forrest is someone Clarke has met before, and is more than glad to have a familiar face to turn to.

After proper introduction and half a moment of mindless chit chat, Lexa leaves her to get acquainted with the department. And as soon as her hand touches the stairs railing, a heavy cloud seems to be lifted from the entire floor.

Well. Lexa Woods is fucking _feared_.

Clarke wonders when the horror stories will start coming her way, wonders if they will help with the curling settling deep in her stomach, if they’ll make her see Lexa in any different light.

Between finding out where the break room is and being handed more reports than she can realistically get through in what’s left of the week, Clarke sees a different Polis altogether. Some people prefer to be called by their last name, most are on a first name basis. There’s a karaoke night with the heads of the departments coming up and she needs to figure out her song before then. No one stays past six, unless it’s taxing season or the funding has been cut short and they need to brainstorm something new. No one can avoid TV shows spoilers in this building, so she better be caught up on anything she watches.

She’s more of a movie person — she lacks the patience to follow a storyline for more than three hours without seeing results.

A whole new energy is coursing through her veins when she gets to her office and dumps the reports dating back to a few years paired with more than a handful of yearly budgets on the desk. 

When she first saw Lexa this morning, Clarke was sure she’d quit by the end of the month and was about to bet against herself about how long it’d take. Now, after the boys promised to take her out for drinks on Friday and tell her all the dirt they can think of, she has a feeling she might enjoy this company after all.

Lunchtime is long gone by the time she’s familiar enough with the finances to see what year brought the exponential growth and what month they _should_ have hired her. After asking Jackson for a good place to grab lunch, she spends the ten minute walk cursing whoever made the financial decisions for the past year and a half — Becca something, who has a gorgeous signature, but would probably do a lot more good in the programming side of this company.

Clarke eats her sandwich while taking notes on everything she’d have done differently, drinks her iced coffee enjoying the afternoon sun and one of the first reports from the foot-long pile she now has on her desk. 

It’s interesting work, to find out the nitty-gritty of a company, what’s behind the scenes, to figure out just how much oil she needs to add so this machine runs smoothly.

The screen saver on her computer screen tells her it’s just past five-thirty when her phone rings and jolts her out of her reverie.

“Griffin.” The greeting falls from her lips without her thinking it through, an old habit from her last workplace. Lexa called her Griffin, the managers she talked to are already calling her Clarke — she doesn’t know how far down the chain it should go.

“Um, it’s Gaia,” the woman at the other end of the receiver introduces herself, although Clarke can see the light to her branch line glowing red, as if Clarke’s formality had thrown her off script for a moment. “If you’re available, Ms. Woods would like to speak to you in her office.”

“I’ll be right down,” Clarke says before hanging up and dropping the report she was reading on the desk, the pen she’s been fidgeting with now resting beside it.

It’s not that Clarke doesn’t have her work for the next week and a half already cut out for her, but she found out through experience that when the CEO calls her personally to her office, there’s not much she can do besides dropping whatever fire she’s putting out and go talk to her. Because more often than not, it’s not a good sign.

Hoping against all hope that this is one of the times where it is a good sign, Clarke closes her office door behind her and makes her way to Lexa’s office.

With each step down the stairs, Clarke tries to reason with her own low burning anxiety as to why she’s been all but summoned. The logical side of her brain tells her the CEO of a struggling company would want to make sure the new head of finances isn’t diving into something beyond her capacities and won’t drag them down even further. It makes sense. She’s almost done with her workday, it’s a good time to check in with her boss.

But she can’t get that little voice inside her head to shut up — the one insisting Lexa has thought this over, decided that working with her one night stand is too much of a conflict of interests to keep her at this job, and she might as well fire Clarke before she finds out much about the company.

Clarke finds Gaia typing furiously on her computer, and she doesn’t even look up from the monitor as she points Clarke to the open glass door to Lexa’s office. No time for small talk then, great. 

Squaring her shoulders and noticing the pinch on her small back, Clarke makes a mental note to adjust the height of her chair if she doesn’t get fired, then knocks on the doorframe. When Lexa looks up, she’s all ice and power — gone are the stumbled words and the nervous folding of her hands, the awkward silence as they don’t acknowledge how they’ve known each other before a mere memory.

“Griffin,” Lexa drops the _Ms_. she used in the morning, which Clarke very much appreciates. With a wave and a quick glance towards her employee, Lexa invites her in before turning her attention back to the paper she’s putting aside. “Would you close the door behind you, please?”

She does as she’s told, bracing herself for whatever is coming. Whoever dares to glance up from their desk and take a look at what’s going on in Lexa’s office gives Clarke a sympathetic smile, which she accepts with a barely-there smile of her own. She doesn’t know who they are, but it’s no comfort to know she might need the encouragement.

“Ms. Woods,” Clarke nods to her boss as she walks across the office, folding her hands in front of her — it’s less of a respectful posture, and more to keep herself from fidgeting. 

Lexa drops the folder she’s holding up with a dull thud, letting out a wince as if she had been burned with hot metal. “Lexa is fine,” she corrects, her voice showing no signs of why her last name makes her so uncomfortable, and points to a chair.

Sitting down on the same place she occupied this morning, Clarke allows herself to relax her shoulders, sink into the very ergonomic chair. Her lower back seems to loosen just a little. “Shouldn’t you start to call me Clarke again?” Clarke asks, the hint of something only the both of them are privy to hanging in the air. She shrugs, as innocently as possible, when Lexa glares at her through her eyelashes — oh, that must absolutely terrify everyone in this office. “To even it out.”

Lexa doesn’t say anything, doesn’t address Clarke’s poor attempt at a joke, and goes straight to it. “How has your day been?”

Despite the lengthening of her spine that makes her seem larger than life as she sways to look at Clarke, Lexa’s question comes out a lot more casual than it should. So much so that Clarke almost starts telling her what she’s had for lunch, asking for tips on where to find some decent sandwiches.

“Productive,” Clarke states, simply, folding her hands in front of her again. She thinks through her words, making sure they’re a tad more formal, like she’s talking to her boss and not the girl she slept with yesterday, “I made my way through all the yearly budgets and the decisions after each one are… baffling, let’s say.”

Lexa pinches the bridge of her nose, closing her eyes for a moment, her lips pressing together in a thin line. “How bad is it?”

“So far? I’d say it’s not good,” Clarke says, wondering how much shit she’s allowed to talk about whoever was dealing with the financial department before her. “I should have a plan of action by the end of next week.”

“Good,” Lexa’s voice is clipped, worry clouding her gaze. It’s not unwarranted, by any means. The firm has enough money to get by, but its distribution is so poor they might as well sink. “Do you have any idea how long until we’re back in the black?”

Clarke thinks back to the reports she combed through all day and, besides one or two in the startup’s first few years, they’ve always closed the year with money in the bank. “You’re not in the red, not exactly.”

If her voice comes out in a comforting tone, it doesn’t help Lexa at all. “The numbers aren’t good.”

“No, but the money is there,” Clarke says, but it seems to fall on deaf ears. She has no doubt Lexa herself knows that much, but she can see the frustration underneath her poised demeanour. “You need to put it where it’s needed the most.”

Frustration turns into a barely contained rage, simmering under the surface. Lexa clenches her jaw, a muscle twitching on her cheek before she takes a steadying breath. “It’s exactly what I said. The board of directors didn’t listen to me.”

The reason is thinly veiled — she’s a woman, a young and attractive woman, running an entire company and keeping it afloat despite some departments trying to drag them underwater. Clarke would bet money that the board of directors is composed mainly my white men who think she’s just a pretty face and that they can do her job better than she can, despite having no experience.

She doesn’t ask, because Lexa looks like she might burst if anyone dares to poke her. There’s a hustle and bustle behind her and Clarke gives Lexa a moment, looking towards the source of all the noise. It’s officially time to clock out. Most people are walking away chatting quietly with coworkers, some are loud and making plans for happy hour, a couple even shoot her another sorry look.

Maybe if Lexa didn’t have to constantly fight for what she believes, her employees wouldn’t be so scared of her.

“We can develop two strategies,” Clarke says, taking her eyes away from the leaving crowd to find Lexa staring at her, puzzled. The _we_ sounds more like a team effort than she’d been hired to do and she has little to no idea how to start working on both of them, but she powers through, “One short term, to get the numbers up and the board of directors happier. Another long term, to make sure each department has what it needs in the long run and the decisions are more automated, instead of case by case.”

Clarke borrowed more than one word from the company’s website, but if anything, it seems to land a blow better than any other way of putting it could. Lexa narrows her eyes, “Can you do that?”

Well, she didn’t become a finance analyst by not knowing how to work on short and long term tactics. Clarke doesn’t have much of a feel for the company yet, will have to work closely with some departments and learn how they work with one another, but yes, she can do it. 

With all the confidence of a white man who might be in that board, Clarke raises her eyebrow, “Yes, and do that well.”

“Okay,” Lexa nods, and there’s something in her eyes that wasn’t there before. It’s not enough for Clarke to name it, her mask falling in place, “Run it by me first, then we can hold a meeting with the heads of the departments.”

“Of course,” Clarke nods, her brain working overtime with ideas that come like waves, crashing before her. She needs paper and pen, to jot it all down before she forgets. Their meeting seems to be nearing an end, but Lexa doesn’t move to dismiss her. “Is there anything else?”

“About work, no. Just keep me updated,” Lexa answers, resting her elbows on the desk and folding her hands in front of her. Since she says ‘ _about work_ ’, Clarke waits — she has an idea of what’s coming, and her stomach lurches without her being able to pinpoint the reason why. “Clarke, about last night.”

It’s not an easy conversation for Lexa to start, if the strain on her neck is anything to go by. Clarke watches her throat bob up and down, and finds herself torn between putting her out of her misery or torturing her a little longer. This Lexa, fidgety and unsure, is an entire different woman from the CEO she was just making battle plans with. “Yes?”

“I want it to be clear that I didn’t know who you were when we met at the bar,” Lexa’s voice is low and quiet, as if worried she could be overheard even though the floor is all but clear. “If I had known you’d be my employee, I would have never…”

Her jaw locks again, unable to bring herself to say the words, and Clarke wonders where she’d have stopped. Before their first drink? When Clarke asked her if she wanted to go to her place? Somewhere between that and their clothes being scattered on the floor?

Warmth spreads through her when memories from last night floods her brain, but something about Lexa — maybe the way her knuckles are almost white, maybe the way she’s holding her bottom lip between her teeth — make Clarke ask. “Do you regret it?”

A beat. 

“No,” Lexa says, point blank.

She offers no further comment and Clarke doesn’t push. It’s a good enough answer on its own. Despite the warning signs and the looming threat of a potential harassment lawsuit, Clarke leans forward ever so slightly, lowering her voice. “Do you want to do it again?” 

It’s all worth it for the shock in Lexa’s face alone. 

Her teeth let go of her lips as her jaw goes slack, confusion and something else flashing through her features, her brain trying to catch up with the flirty tone of Clarke’s words, with the whiplash of going from talking about finances to proposing sex in a solid ten seconds.

Before her boss has a goddamn aneurism in front of her, Clarke raises her hands in defeat, a cheeky smile tugging at her lips. She can barely hide her amusement. “I’m _joking_.”

Relief takes an extra moment to wash over Lexa, but eventually, she lets out a half annoyed, half thankful sigh. Her shoulders relax as much as it seems to be possible to CEO Lexa, and she schools her face back into a neutral expression. Polite, even.

To be completely honest, Clarke wouldn’t mind it. Hell, she’d enjoy it a lot more than last night, now that they know their way through each other’s bodies.

Her modus operandi is one night stands with girls she’d never see again, never even bump into on the streets. It’s safe. It’s what she’s good at. But Clarke would be lying if she said she didn’t want to watch Lexa crumbling under her again, that oh so composed face scrunching up in pleasure and whispering _please, god, please_ on her ear.

Lexa’s voice takes her out of her reverie, “I won’t ask you to pretend we hadn’t met before, but I’d appreciate your discretion.” 

Clarke bites the underside of her bottom lip to keep herself from snorting. Lexa makes it sound like she just told Clarke corporate secrets that must only be used in the most dire of situations, not that she doesn’t want everyone in the company to know they fucked.

As Lexa swivels her chair away from the desk and gets up, Clarke matches her, knows her boss thinks this conversation is over, refuses to go down this early. “I don’t really know much about you, anyway,” Clarke says, keeping her voice professional, as if they are, indeed, talking about corporate secrets. “Except that you were heartbroken yesterday and that you’re great in bed.”

“ _Clarke_.” She’s on thin ice, and Lexa makes sure she knows it with the way she utters her name alone. Nothing like she murmured it last night.

“I can be professional, Lexa,” Clarke says, admitting defeat to herself. She wants this job a smidge more than she wants to see Lexa admit that she enjoyed what they had yesterday. “What we do in our own time is no one else’s business.”

Lexa walks over to where Clarke is, her steps deliberate and calculated. Whatever willingness she had in humoring her flirting is gone, and Clarke can see the feared woman underneath. “You do realize I am your boss, and that _that_ wouldn’t fly very well in any ethics committee.”

“I wasn’t your employee yesterday,” Clarke says, only _just_ restraining a shrug. She holds her ground and matches Lexa’s stare, “We were just two women at a bar, there’s nothing wrong with that.”

“I know,” Lexa blinks and steps back. Clarke hadn’t even realized how far into her personal space she was standing, “I’m just not sure how to navigate the aftermath, that’s all.”

At that, Clarke does let out a chuckle — it’s more of a nervous laughter than anything, her fingers itching to run through her hair. “Believe me, this––” she moves her hands between the two of them, “—isn’t my normal either. But we can put it behind us and be professional, if that’s what you want.”

When Lexa nods and thanks her in a soft whisper, Clarke can’t help the disappointment sinking her stomach. But she still follows Lexa to the door, “If you’re as competent as Gustus promised me you are, I’m sure you’ll come up with excellent tactics for our current predicament.”

The words are so formal that the compliment gets almost lost in it.

Clarke shakes Lexa’s hand as it’s offered to her, and it doesn’t feel right — the same way it didn’t feel right the way Lexa climbed out of her bed and fled her apartment last night.

As she walks up the stairs to jot down a few ideas that are simmering in her head, Clarke can’t help but wonder if there will be a time where Lexa doesn’t leave her with shaky legs and a craving for more gnawing at her insides.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All my business knowledge can be boiled down to a six-month internship at a town hall when I was studying Accounting and a handful of hours browsing Investopedia. I tried my best, but the lingo alone gives me a headache and war flashbacks.

Silence falls around Lexa like a heavy curtain, muffling every rustle, quietening every breath, as she walks out the elevator and down the open office.

It doesn’t bother her, she’s grown used to it, has almost learned to welcome the electricity in the air, buzzing with each click of her heels on the marble floor. It happens at least twice a day — early in the morning, marking the start of the working day as the gossiping hushes, and after her lunch break. It’s more noticeable in the afternoon, without the laziness that settles in before coffee, and Lexa holds her head a little taller.

If being feared keeps her company running, so be it.

The employees who have been with her for more than three years know that she hasn’t always been like this. She used to be warm, to greet them all in the morning with an easy smile, to lean against a desk or another during a lull in the workday to help or advise even the interns. 

It all went away when the person who gave her all that warmth did.

Grabbing a few notes from Gaia, Lexa walks into her office while skimming them — and if lively conversation fills the space outside once everyone knows there are walls separating them from the CEO, Lexa pretends it doesn’t bother her.

The first note is from Anya, asking for a callback when she has time. Her COO has better ways to contact her than to call her secretary during her lunch break, but Anya knows Lexa has been avoiding her calls. It’s nothing related to work, it’s about a dinner she’s having with some old friends, and Lexa hasn’t called her because she hasn’t figured out an excuse out of it just yet.

It sours her mood even further. 

She scans the next few notes. A firm they work with wants her input on a new case they took in a couple of months ago, a David vs. Goliath case that will need a full morning of meeting for her to even get caught up in. Indra wants to set up a time to meet the new financial analyst properly. Human Resources needs her go-ahead to renew the interns’ contracts. 

Lexa pauses. The last note isn’t written in Gaia’s tall handwriting. It’s a different one — with loopy Ys and Ss that curl around themselves, stretched curves, lazy traces.

“ _ Meeting in my office today? Bring coffee. — Griffin. _ ”

It makes her blink a couple of times and read it again. Changing the location of their daily meeting isn’t much of a hassle for Lexa, since Clarke is usually the one hauling papers up and down the stairs. It was expected, even, after Anya burst into her office a couple of days ago to tell them no one, from the interns to  _ her _ , could stand to watch their bickering anymore.

But the request.  _ Bring coffee _ . 

Lexa hasn’t brought anyone coffee since her own days as an intern, when coffee runs were all she did all day, with the occasional added pastry to spice things up. It doesn’t bother her as much as it  _ should _ , to be asked to bring coffee to an employee of hers — her excuses as to why are so flimsy she doesn’t even bother picking one.

Putting the notes under a paperweight, Lexa quickly scribbles down a reminder for herself to email three of them and call Anya in the morning with a good excuse. Or a mediocre one, that’s fine too — she doesn’t want to be the sad widow at a dinner party where everyone has a significant other and stories of their children to tell.

With a deep breath, Lexa picks up the notebook she’s been using in every meeting with Clarke and heads to the kitchen area they have. If Gaia thinks it’s odd that she’s going there instead of upstairs to Clarke’s, she doesn’t comment on it.

When Lexa reaches the kitchen, it’s not empty — a few people she recognizes from Operations are sitting around the table, chatting over steaming cups. By the time she grabs two tall mugs, there’s no one else around.

She doesn’t mind it. She does not. She revels in the silence, the quiet that it brings to her head.

The coffee maker is similar enough to the one she has at home for her to do this almost automatically, leaving her mind free to wander. Lexa hasn’t made her own coffee at Polis Inc. since they hired Gaia, since they went from a ten-person start-up to a hundred people firm with articles in the biggest newspapers and legal magazines in the country.

(That’s not the whole truth. Lexa would come to the kitchen whenever Costia came to visit her, and she’d make herself some coffee, make Costia her favorite tea.)

But the process gives her some peace.

It’s been a rough few weeks. Her world seems to have shifted upside down since the night she went down to a random bar to drown her sorrows and ended up sleeping with her financial analyst. Although  _ that _ is one of her lesser problems.

Clarke has come into the firm with a purpose, and she’s spent her first couple weeks digging around to find the exact reason why they were losing money when their income used to be great just a few months ago, leaving no stone unturned. She combed through every kind of report — budget, financial planning, cash flow, taxes, even capital structure — to find the source. And she found it in the goddamn  _ code _ of the artificial intelligence they used to evaluate potential investments.

Some errors in the filters used in analyzing the court records, Clarke had said.

Lexa isn’t proud of her outburst then. Gritted teeth didn’t keep her from screaming bloody murder to anyone who had anything to do with it, numbers rolling out her tongue with venom and threats. They’ve lost  _ millions _ because of a computer bug that had messed up a code they’ve been working on and bettering for years. 

Taking the next day off to cool down helped a little, even if rage mixed with bile and burned through her. Her short temperament had grown shorter by the day, snapping at the mildest interruptions, wanting to throttle someone despite no one being able to pinpoint the person behind the mess up.

Over the weekend, Lexa got a text from an unknown number, that ended up being Clarke’s — how she had found her personal number was a mystery to Lexa, but not one she found herself too eager to solve; she had bigger issues to deal with. In the text that could have and  _ should  _ have been an email sent from a professional address, Clarke explained her thought process to Lexa, the next steps in her journey to fix the company. 

With the last paragraph, Lexa understood why it hadn’t been an email — “ _ You need to act like a CEO who has her shit together if you want this to work. I’m not saying you weren’t in the right, I’d have punched someone, but the board is already on your ass. Don’t give them more ammunition. _ ”

The language was crude, at best. But somehow, Lexa could picture those words coming out of Clarke, almost the exact tone she’d say them in, and that did the job.

Lexa didn’t answer the text. Instead, she let her anger simmer and boil away, leaving behind the determination to prove the board of directors wrong, to keep this company from plummeting to the ground. On Monday morning, she walked past her own office and up the stairs to Clarke’s, and told her, in no uncertain terms, that she needed to clear her afternoons because they’d have daily meetings for as long as it took for them to fix it.

The sputter of the coffee maker as it finishes filling the second mug takes Lexa out of her reverie. In a feat that she has her countless coffee runs to thank, Lexa grabs both mugs by the handles with a single hand, gripping her notebook, her phone, and packets of both sugar and creamer with the other.

She ignores the odd looks she gets from Gaia and three people exchanging notes on the second-floor landing, but Lexa can’t help the inadequate feeling bubbling in her chest as she uses her elbow to get Clarke’s office door to open. It’s not like she can  _ knock _ . It’s not like Clarke has been knocking on her door before bursting in for the last four days — hell, for the last four weeks.

“Oh, you’re a lifesaver,” Clarke says in lieu of hello, climbing from behind the small mountain of paperwork on her desk to meet Lexa halfway. “I’ve been on the phone with the law firms you work with since nine, I’m about to drop.”

Lexa lets go of Clarke’s mug when her hands wrap around it and offers her the packets she brought. They haven’t really had coffee together before, although they had walked into meetings each with their own coffee already on hand, and Lexa doesn’t know how Clarke takes hers. So she watches Clarke for a moment.

Creamer and no sugar, fair enough. Lexa would have guessed it on her second try, she could have sworn Clarke was a black coffee person as well.

“Enjoy it, I made it myself,” Lexa raises her own mug in cheers before taking a sip from it, the bitterness clinging to her jaw, washing away whatever lethargy her lunch left her with.

Clarke raises an eyebrow at her, looking at her with curiosity perking up in her smile, “Don’t you have minions to do that?”

“We have  _ interns _ to do that,” Lexa corrects as she watches Clarke going back to sit behind her desk, before taking a seat in front of her. “But you’ve been a great help lately. I figured it was fair.”

The true meaning of it all hangs in the air. Clarke has been a great help, sure, but she’s been hired for that. The coffee is a silent thank you for keeping Lexa grounded during this week, and a premature apology for the hell she’s very likely to put her through in the following ones.

Clarke hums, and if she understands what Lexa means, she doesn’t say anything. “I didn’t know I could send interns to make  _ me _ coffee,” she says, almost to herself, her eyes widening with the newfound power. “That changes things.”

They drink their coffee mostly in silence as Clarke puts away the work from the morning, putting the threatening pile of files and folders on her bookcase and grabbing a binder from another shelf. Lexa watches her, an interest that has been dormant for years tugging at her insides — she takes notice of the way her loose slacks still cling to her hips, how her necklaces rest delicately above the swell of her breasts. It’s more than fashion, and Lexa doesn’t address that, not now. Not when Clarke traps the tip of her tongue in between her teeth as she gets to her tiptoes to get a second binder from a higher shelf.

Lexa grits her teeth, and looks to her notebook, still closed on her lap. She settles her half-empty mug on the desk and picks up a pen, opening on yesterday’s notes and going over them to refresh her memory.

She’s always been  _ hands-on _ in the company, even after it grew from a hopeful startup to something bigger than Lexa could wrap her head around. It’s easier to foresee issues when she’s on top of things, knows the dilemmas of each department, has a broad understanding of each case they’re working on. It wasn’t much help with a fucking error in the code that almost brought them to their knees, but it has saved her a few sleepless nights in the past.

But this… This is new territory for her. 

Working with someone she has slept with has never been an issue for her — Costia had been the only woman for her since their college days, and after her, there’d been no one else. And she’s always considered herself professional enough  _ not _ to get into an office romance, even after the pain has become a little duller and sometimes a brave someone would linger their hand on her arm for longer than polite.

It’s different with Clarke. Lexa knew the taste of her before she knew that  _ Griffin _ was her last name. She had filed that night away as a horrible mistake and almost drowned in self-loathing when she woke up the next day and found out she had enjoyed it.

When Lexa is done pretending to read her notes — she’d gone over them during lunch, even written down some ideas for today — she looks up to find Clarke looking at her.

“You’re hot,” Clarke says, her words clear as day, and Lexa blinks at her. She watches, in pure disbelief, as blue eyes travel south from her face to the exposed skin below her collarbone, to her chest rising and falling rapidly with her labored breath. “Do you want me to turn the air-conditioning on?”

Oh.  _ Fuck _ . Lexa feels heat crawling up her cheeks, no doubt making them blush and confirming Clarke’s observation about the temperature in the room and nothing else.

“It’s fine. I’ll just take my jacket off, thank you,” Lexa says, proudly noting that her voice doesn’t shake. Clarke goes back to pulling out a few documents from the second binder she got, and it’s clear that she meant nothing by her poor choice of words.

As she shrugs off her jacket and welcomes the cool air that washes over her, Lexa finds herself already aching for this meeting to be over, for this entire endeavor to have an end before her wits leave her.

Lengthening her spine, Lexa adjusts her chair so she can use the desk for her notes as well. With a hard set to her jaw, she knows she could fool anyone into thinking she has it all figured out and this mess she’s neck-deep in is nothing but a bump in the road — no one makes it past their first year as a CEO without learning how to school their features into something both bland and commanding.

Clarke, on the other hand, seems comfortable with looking entirely out of her depth as she props one barefoot on the edge of her chair and leans her elbow on it, clicking a pen while she flips through one particular folder. “I couldn’t find anything on market trends,” Clarke says, one page suspended in the air as she looks up at Lexa, “Do you know if Becca consulted someone?”

“I was under the impression that was your job, Clarke,” Lexa bites before she has the good sense to school not only her features but also her  _ tone _ . Even the way Clarke’s name leaves her lips is clipped.

And it’s only because Clarke isn’t doing her job right. It has nothing to do with the relaxed way she leans against her chair, the very unprofessional pose she’s holding herself in that gives away how comfortable she is with her  _ boss _ .

“It is when I’m not trying to keep a company from drowning,” Clarke bites back, holding Lexa’s eyes, daring her to say something else. Then reaches for her phone, murmuring almost to herself. “I might know someone who can give me some pointers.”

“Don’t we have people to do that?”

“Excuse me if I don’t fully trust your finance department just yet. They didn’t notice a  _ lot _ of shit,” Clarke’s thumbs fly across her phone screen as she speaks, not bothering to look up from it until a  _ swish _ sound indicates a message being sent. Then she grabs a wire-bound document and throws it towards Lexa, “Because honestly, this financial planning? Might as well be doodles for all it’s worth.”

Raising an eyebrow both at the language and the document she knows inside out, Lexa lifts her chin, “You make me question my hiring abilities.”

“Everyone is allowed one fuck up, I guess,” Clarke shrugs, picking up her pen again and digging through her desk until she finds her ever-growing to-do list.

Lexa chews on her bottom lip, determined to swallow her words. She focuses on Clarke’s handwriting, the same lazy curls, and loops that adorn the note stuck to her desk, and notices that she’s left-handed. Huh. It makes sense — Clarke had favored her left hand that night.

“Becca wasn’t my hire,” Lexa lets the words fall from her lips, because between that and her mind wandering to Clarke’s fingers, it seems like the lesser of two evils. “I’m not trying to avoid responsibility but, well, she was an indication from the board. Despite her expertise lying somewhere else, they insisted she worked in finance.”

Clarke drops her foot back to the floor and leans on her elbows, pen still clutched in between her fingers. “Did you fire her?”

“I did,” Lexa answers, simply. She doesn’t regret it. If anything, it’s the one decision she’s actually proud of in the last year. “The board wasn’t happy about it.”

“It smells like ulterior motives to me,” Clarke sing-songs her words, going back to her to-do list. “I can’t wait to have to run our decisions by them.”

“We should cross that bridge when we get to it.” Lexa doesn’t want to scare her this early on, not when they still have some battles to win before they have to run it all by the board. She sees Clarke scribbling ‘ _ marked trends consulting — Ryke? _ ’ on her to-do list. Her jaw shifts from one side to another, and she takes a sharp intake of breath. “Do we have the money for a consultant?”

Clarke looks up, her pen stopping mid-way a sentence when she sees the look on Lexa’s face. “We  _ have _ to make money for that. It’s how we can get the information we need for forecasting.”

Lexa closes her eyes, counts to five, and tightens her lips against the cursing that wants to escape. The chair that felt comfortable enough around her just a minute ago digs and pokes at her sides and Lexa lets her notebook fall shut before getting up. If she stays seated, all the kinetic energy bouncing inside her will come out in vile words.

“We already have awful numbers, Clarke,” Lexa says through gritted teeth as she paces across the length of the office, then pauses in front of her financial analyst, stares her down with her hands on her waist. “You’ve read the reports. I don’t see why we can’t put it off until we better our current situation.”

“Because analyzing market trends takes time, Lexa,” Clarke lets out in a huff, her name punctuating her frustration. “And it’s not like I can just scan a few articles and come up with it myself. Litigation financing based on AI isn’t exactly a common industry.”

Lexa locks her jaw tighter, enough that pain shoots up her temples. She’ll have a migraine before they’re done with this meeting, and it’s a guessing game what will end her first. 

Wrapping her arms around her waist, Lexa paces until she’s facing one of the walls of the office, staring at a painting Clarke has hung there. With more effort than she’s willing to admit, Lexa takes in slow breaths to try and calm her racing heart as she takes in the brushwork in front of her, oddly captivated by the way burnt sienna flows into midnight blue.

There’s a reason Lexa made sure her own office had glass walls and floor-to-ceiling windows — the obvious threat of anyone seeing what she’s doing in there at all times keeps her calm, her mind quiet, her focus on the things that matter. 

In this office, with thick walls that close in on her and steal her oxygen, Lexa feels far too vulnerable, more exposed than if she’d been naked inside her glass walls.

It doesn’t help that Clarke stares at her like she can see right through her.

And maybe she can. Maybe having been  _ actually _ naked in front of Clarke has stripped her from her composure, from the put-together facade she’s worked so hard on. It’s infuriating, to say the least.

Her eyes dart to the bottom right corner of the painting — C.G. Clarke Griffin. 

Lexa straightens her spine once again in ten minutes, a personal record, and puts her hand in her shallow pockets before turning to face Clarke again. “Fine.”

The word feels like sand on her tongue. If they have to spend money on an undoubtedly expensive consultant who knows enough about litigation finance  _ and _ artificial intelligence to come up with an analysis they won’t even be able to use for a few months still, so be it. What’s one more disaster for the books?

“Good,” Clarke doesn’t say anything else, doesn’t address the suffocating silence between them. There’s no pity or anger in her eyes, not anything in between, when Clarke looks up to Lexa, who has yet to calm her nerves enough to take her place again, “Now, did you work on the strengths and weaknesses list I asked you to?”

“Clarke, I already worked on those,” Lexa says, sounding more tired than annoyed. And she  _ is _ annoyed. “Months ago.”

“Well, clearly you didn’t do a great job because I haven’t seen a single corrective action plan and your numbers should be better by now if you had implemented them  _ months ago _ ,” Clarke snaps at her, something toeing the line between sarcasm and utter disrespect melting in her tongue.

Lifting her chin and readying herself for battle, Lexa stares at her. 

It’s one thing to have someone question her decisions, Lexa is used to that, has had to defend them and stand her ground more times than she can count. What Clarke is doing is something else entirely.

When Clarke gets up and crosses the distance between them, Lexa has to brace herself to keep from stumbling back when her personal bubble pops with an almost audible sound. With Clarke barefoot and Lexa still in her heels, there’s a good three inches between them. But considering the way Clarke stares at her, looking into her eyes as if she’s searching for something, she might as well be towering over Lexa.

“You hired me to fix your company,” Clarke says, calmer and softer than Lexa had been expecting — and  _ that _ is what makes her lose her footing. “The least you can do is help me do it. I know how to do my job, but I can’t do it without you. I need you to trust me.”

Lexa doesn’t answer.

Instead, she storms out of Clarke’s office, slamming the door on her jacket, her notebook, and half-drunk coffee, on the one person who’s supposed to be her salvation and is proving to be the exact opposite.

With determined strides and lips pressed to a thin line, Lexa makes her way to her own office. It doesn’t take a genius to notice unabashed anger coming out of her in waves, poisoning her surroundings, killing any lively conversation that seems to come to life whenever she’s not present.

Lexa has enough problems to deal with as it is. The company she’s followed from the ground up is falling apart, the board is scrutinizing her leadership, ready to catch any wrong step and make her pay for it. She has enough on her plate without Clarke getting under her skin.

Her steps echo across the floor as she makes her way down the stairs and Gaia knows better than to try to talk to her when she walks into her office. Lexa doesn’t bother closing the door — the glass is pretty resistant, but she isn’t sure it can take her fury — and doesn’t sit down on her chair as she scans through her files until she finds the one she’s looking for and hits print.

Lexa knows she needs to trust Clarke. If she wants this to work, she needs to trust Clarke, her judgment. What Polis is going through is more than Lexa can deal with herself, and it might leave a bitter taste in her mouth, but she’s not too proud that she doesn’t know when help is needed.

She has to trust Clarke.

But  _ god _ , trusting her with her company’s fate is terrifying — like she’s trusting Clarke with a lot more, putting delicate things in the care of someone she isn’t sure won’t break them.

The time between climbing down the stairs and climbing back up has given Lexa some breathing room, some much-needed space to gather her thoughts and her feelings. When she closes the door behind her and turns to face Clarke’s office, the four walls don’t seem to be caving in on her anymore. 

Without a word, she hands the papers to Clarke and takes her seat again. “Now. Was that so hard?”

“Don’t push it, Clarke.”

As Clarke skims through the couple of pages Lexa has managed to put together on a night she didn’t leave the building until well past two in the morning with her stomach dipping with her clear failure, she takes in the office. The clutter on her desk has been put away, leaving only her to-do list and a few pertinent documents — the financial planning is on top, sticky notes and tabs poking out of it, and Lexa’s fingers itch to flip through it.

“Okay,” Clarke says, putting the papers now and bringing her office phone closer to her, “Before we dig in, who do I need to call to get us coffee? I want to test my new powers.”

The poorly hidden giddiness in her voice surprises Lexa, but she tells her which branch line to call and who to ask. Within ten minutes, they have fresh coffee — that, all modesty aside, isn’t as good as the one Lexa brewed herself — and a long afternoon ahead.

They go over each topic together, Clarke making notes directly on the printout and Lexa making her own on her notebook, every now and then telling Clarke to jot something down. Every time Clarke adds a new topic under the weaknesses title, with a star on the side to signal they need to work on it as soon as possible, or crosses out some strengths after arguing her point with her, Lexa feels her mood going from bad to worse.

As the days go by and turn into weeks, Lexa finds it harder and harder to bounce back from the bitterness in her tongue, the tendrils of something darker curling around her core.

They spend two days arguing back and forth about Clarke’s plan in the short term — to get their numbers up and  _ fast _ , they need to redirect money between departments. Lexa agrees with that, but she refuses to fire anyone she doesn’t absolutely have to and has enough arguments against most departments losing money that Clarke can’t talk her out of, that it leaves them at a crossroads.

Gaia calls them midway through what anyone would call a screaming match to ask if everything is okay. Neither had realized they were being loud enough for people  _ downstairs _ to be able to hear it, and their meetings became shorter after that, one of them calling it a day before they started yelling again. More often than not, Clarke would go to her office after most people had left and pick up from where they had left in a calmer demeanor. 

When Friday rolls in, after a  _ long _ week of them shutting down each other’s ideas that left them having staring contests more often than words were being said, Lexa is on edge before even stepping foot into Clarke’s office — because, according to Anya, no one wants to see them going at each other’s throats, so walls that aren’t made of glass are preferable.

They have agreed on enough points that neither of them had lost their mind. Not  _ yet _ , anyway. Some corrective actions had already been put in place, to the dismay of most department heads, and market analysis is well on its way. 

But Clarke still stares at her with fire on her eyes when Lexa gets into her office. “Why did I get a request from Operations to adjust their budget? From what I recall, I had already fucking done that.”

It has taken Lexa a while to get used to the way Clarke spoke, technical terms and formal speech peppered with cursing that slipped past her lips before she could contain them. Lexa pinches the bridge of her nose because she knew she was coming here to this, “Marketing isn’t–”

“You don’t need to focus on Marketing now, Lexa,” Clarke cuts her off before she can sit down, standing up to meet her height in full, “If anything, you need to tell them all to keep it quiet. This–” Clarke grabs a new wire-bound document, that Lexa recognizes as their initial forecasting report, and throws it at her. “– is not something to advertise.”

Lexa doesn’t take it, doesn’t look away from Clarke as it tumbles to a chair. “I can’t strip an entire department of its budget simply because our current situation isn’t social media-friendly.”

“You don’t even have a great social media presence, so save it,” Clarke barks at her and, for a moment, Lexa wonders if Clarke means the company’s online presence or her own. “The software engineers are doing their fucking best, but making it pretty for the media won’t fix that goddamn bug. Which, by the way, whoever put it there? Fucking knew what they were doing.”

With a grunt, Clarke is the one who starts pacing around her office this time, her hands flying to her hair, pulling it back and away from her face. It takes Lexa aback, seeing Clarke expressing her frustration physically, instead of verbally. Not for the first time in the weeks Clarke has been working with her, Lexa finds herself without a good rebuttal.

Lexa knows all that. She  _ knows _ that despite their website and all the information people can find there, their online presence is a joke at best. They’ve gone over this, she’s explained to Clarke how they need to start building it to make up for the bad press they’ve been dealing with. Covering bad press is a more urgent matter than fixing the reason for it, according to the board, and there’s only so much leeway Lexa gets without going against them directly.

But she doesn’t say any of that to Clarke, doesn’t repeat herself when she knows it’ll fall to deaf ears. “You know what? I can’t do this right now. I’ll take it all home and we can pick it back up on Monday. I’m tired of putting up with someone who can’t trust my decisions.”

Her words are meant to hurt, considering the way Clarke all but spit them at Lexa, and they do.

Whatever pull Clarke had towards Lexa that made her flirt without reserve and get comfortable enough to lie on the floor to have a better view of everything they were working on seems to have disappeared. It’s a good thing, Lexa tells herself, as she watches Clarke piling most things that were on her desk into her arms and shrugging her bag on her shoulder.

Of course, she couldn’t just  _ leave _ .

Clarke stops, inches away from Lexa, her ragged breath hitting her cheek with each forceful exhale. “You’d make my job a lot easier if you’d just admit that you can be wrong sometimes,” her voice is quiet and leaning on dangerous, and Lexa doesn’t miss the way her eyes narrow as she glances down in-between them before looking up again, “But it’s hard for you to work with someone who isn’t scared shitless of you, isn’t it?”

It’s Clarke who slams the door on her way out, hard enough that Lexa is positive the entire building hears it, leaving her with her own sins and those same four walls closing in on her again.

Every twist and turn of the wood grain in the white oak door is imprinted behind her eyelids when Lexa peels her eyes away from it. Clarke won’t open that door again. Not today, at least. That realization sinks into Lexa’s bones and all of a sudden, she can barely believe she thought anything else would happen.

Lexa lets herself fall against the now mostly empty desk, her hands gripping the edge. She needs something solid under her palms, something that won’t crumble or fall apart, and if it makes the sharp corner digging into her lower back, she welcomes the feeling.

She’s tired. She’s fucking  _ exhausted _ — of feeling like a failure, like a farce that should never have climbed this far up the corporate ladder, like she can’t get a goddamn grip on her own emotions anymore.

Her nerves are frayed, sure. But they’ve been frayed before, they’ve been torn to pieces and walked all over — and she pushed through those rough times just fine, thank you very much. With the occasional angry outburst and working so late into the night that she was asleep before her head hit the pillow, yes. But she did it.

Lexa has always been in control of herself, has always known how to separate feelings from duty. For the past month and a half, they’ve been mixing together, as irreversible as milk poured into coffee — beautiful swirls and mesmerizing galaxies that turn a dull brown no matter how much one wishes they’d last for longer.

When she tries to take a deep breath in, it’s shaky and weak — the lingering perfume mixes with the remnants of disdain, and it’s overpowering. Her shoulders slump forward in a feeble attempt to shield her vital organs, and Lexa looks up at the ceiling, without blinking, willing her stubborn tears to crawl back into their tear ducts.

Her next breath is a far cry from the last, more steady, and calming. And the next one is easier still.

It takes her a moment to compose herself, for her shoulders to lift their weight back, for her legs to hold her without worry. In those few moments, she gathers her things, whatever notes Clarke had written for her with ideas they were supposed to discuss, grabs the files she might need a refresher on over the weekend.

Only then, when her face is carefully stoic, is that Lexa makes her way back to her office.

Her heart drums loudly in her ears and her jaw is clenched tight, but her back is ramrod straight when she asks Gaia, in a clear and steady voice, to hold off every call and not let anyone go into her office, no matter who it is.

The glass walls offer little privacy, barely muffling the incessant chatter typical of Friday afternoons. But they give her a chance to hide in plain view, they force her to keep a straight face, to keep working, to keep doing  _ something _ that isn’t overthinking words she can’t take back.

It’s not like she’ll get into a flow state and pour into her work, making these last few hours of her workweek the most productive — the glass walls help, they don’t do miracles.

The most Lexa can force herself to do is deal with the mountain of emails waiting in her inbox. She writes concise answers for the more urgent ones, adjusting her calendar with a new meeting or business lunch as needed, forwards whatever needs to be dealt with by someone else, deletes the ones that are just cluttering it. It’s a good distraction, a productive one. It passes the time.

She has made quite a dent in the number beside her inbox, to the point where it’s no longer terrifyingly daunting, when her glass door opens and closes with no knock or introduction. For a moment, Lexa thinks — hopes — it’s Gaia coming in with coffee strong enough to carry her for the next few hours. That hope disappears when she hears a chair being pulled.

“Trouble in paradise?” Anya asks, a hint of something Lexa knows she doesn’t have the energy to deal with coloring her tone. 

Lexa finishes writing an email and presses send before leaning against the tall back of her chair and swiveling to look at Anya. The stupid grin she suspected Anya would have is firmly in place, and Lexa raises an eyebrow, “Excuse me?”

“Rumor has it Clarke walked out in the middle of the afternoon looking pissed, and you have  _ that _ face on.” Anya waves vaguely towards Lexa, without elaborating on what face she has on. It’s not like Lexa is going to ask — her temples hurt in a way that could indicate a tension headache coming up or that she’s been clenching her jaw for the last hour. “Everyone is terrified to even look your way. I, particularly, am having the time of my life.”

Rolling her eyes at the ridiculous joy emanating from Anya, Lexa lets out a deep, tired breath. The last few weeks have been difficult enough without having to put up with her supposedly best friend mocking her. “She’s insufferable.”

“Is she?” Anya says in a flat tone, sinking further into her chair, making herself comfortable. It’s like she’s getting ready to binge-watch her favorite TV show. “Or are you having issues delegating important decisions to someone you barely know and came here to save our asses?”

Lexa doesn’t answer. Because both alternatives are equally likely to be true.

Except they’re not.

Leaning her elbows on the desk and crossing her arms, Lexa looks past Anya, past the glass door, and takes in the commotion from every five in the afternoon — people grabbing their coats, shutting their computers off standing up so they can leave faster, some waiting for others to be done so they can go out for a happy hour. It’s been so long since Lexa has had anything like it that just looking at their easy smiles makes something inside her chest collapse.

Before something else snaps inside her, Lexa turns to Anya. She’s held on to that secret, the one that’s been eating at her, ruining her from the inside out, for far too long. “We slept together.”

“You  _ what _ ?” Anya jolts forward in her chair, the news so outside the realm of things she expected to hear that it takes her a moment to process Lexa’s words at all. If this were about anything else, Lexa would take some joy in the reaction. “You and Clarke?”

“Yes,” Lexa nods, once, and doesn’t offer any other explanation. 

Her hand goes to her chest without her noticing it, lands on her wedding ring. She had moved it from her finger to a necklace under the disguise of keeping it closer to her heart. That excuse doesn’t ring true, no matter how much she repeats the story to herself — keeping it on her finger felt like a betrayal now.

“Well, clearly it wasn’t a great fuck if you both are still that wound up,” Anya recovers fast and jumps right back to teasing Lexa. Usually, she appreciates how Anya lightens up the mood and helps her loosen up. But not about this.

“It wasn’t—” Lexa starts, working her jaw from one side to the other. She doesn’t even have it in her to be offended that Anya thinks that little of her work ethics. “I didn’t know she’d work under me when it happened.”

She regrets the wording she chose the moment they leave her lips, and the warning look Lexa shoots her way does nothing to keep her from talking. “Do you mean, when you were under her?” Anya says with a smirk, enjoying this far too much — maybe she would make good friends with Clarke, for how much both of them like double entendres.

“It happened on March 19th.”

“Did you write it in your diary— Oh.” It takes a moment for Anya to connect the date to what happened, three years ago. When she does, her face falls, whatever joke she had on the tip of her tongue disappearing. “ _ Oh _ .” 

“Yea,” Lexa lets out a dry, humorless laugh, letting go of her wedding ring. It’s become a habit of her, to run it across the chain when she’s anxious or in deep thought. Right now, it doesn’t comfort her at all.

“Fuck, Lex,” Anya leans back on her chair, searching for what to say. It’s not often that she’s left speechless. “Was it the first time since…?” She lets the sentence hang in the air, its meaning clear —  _ since Costia died _ . Lexa nods. “That’s… Fuck, okay. I’d say you’re handling it fine then.”

Clenching her jaw and willing herself to keep a straight face, Lexa watches the last of her employees file away from their desks. This isn’t a conversation for them to have in the office. This is a conversation they should have over whiskey, sitting on the floor of Anya’s apartment, with her dog sleeping on Lexa’s lap.

“But I’m not, am I? We’re supposed to work together and I can barely look at her without—” Lexa pauses. What’s she supposed to say? That she can’t look at Clarke without thinking about what she felt under her fingers, without wanting to do it all over again? She settles for a half-truth. “—remembering.”

“You fucked a stranger on the anniversary of your wife’s death. I’ve seen you riddled with guilt and shame by a lot less,” Anya doesn’t mince her words, and the delivery is a sucker punch. It’s one thing to be aware she’s done exactly that — it’s a whole other thing to have it said to her in such a crude way. “Was it worth it?”

Lexa almost grunts in frustration, reining herself in at the last moment. Anya couldn’t possibly just  _ let it go _ , could she? After all, what’s the fun in not torturing Lexa for a decision she wants to regret more than anything.

“I’m not discussing my sex life with you.” Lexa makes a point to turn back to her computer because this conversation is over. God, how she wants it to be over.

“Do you have a sex life though? Do you really?” Anya asks, and Lexa doesn’t have to look at her to know she’s narrowing her eyes at her. There’s a pause where Lexa opens a new unread email and skims through it, then some shuffling as Anya leans closer to her, “It  _ was _ worth it. And that’s why you’re being such a bitch to her.”

_ Being a bitch _ sounds a bit extreme, but there’s some truth to that. “I suppose,” Lexa waves a hand, almost dismissively, pretending to be fully immersed in her email. 

But that doesn’t keep Anya from getting her point across. “Lexa. You’ve been my best friend for years, and I’d go to war for you. But Jesus  _ fuck _ , Woods.”  _ Wait _ . That catches Lexa’s attention, and she turns to find Anya looking at her in an expression she can’t discern — maybe disbelief, maybe awe. “There’s keeping someone at arm’s length and then there’s making her life miserable.”

“And how do you know Clarke is miserable?” If something tightens in her stomach, Lexa refuses to name it as  _ guilt _ .

“I was the one who asked for a new budget for Operations. She was hanging on by a thread when I told her we hadn’t gotten any adjustments.” All the teasing leaves Anya’s voice, and she sounds less like who she is around Lexa and more like the feared chief operating officer she is in this building. “It was hard to watch.”

Lexa can take the change in tone, can take her siding with Clarke — but  _ that _ is not making Clarke miserable out of spite. That’s her trying to run a goddamn company. “You know as well as I do that the board is breathing down my neck, watching every decision, daring me to slip,” Lexa says in a low voice, “They’ve been trying to take me out for years.”

“And you’re still kicking.”

“Have you seen our latest financial report?” Lexa can barely believe Anya. She’s sat in every meeting, she’s heard every demand. Fuck, she was the one who kept Lexa from losing her composure when one of the board members called her every name in the book.

“I have. It wasn’t you who fucked up. It wasn’t you who put that bug in the code,” Anya reminds her. It may not have been her typing up the code that made them lose so much money, but she was the one who didn’t see it coming, who didn’t catch it sooner. “And we might never figure out who did it, but hiring Clarke to fix all this shit was the right thing to do. You need to let her do her damn job.”

“Did you come all the way here just to defend Clarke? I thought you didn’t like her,” Lexa snaps, the tendrils of a nasty headache gripping her brain. 

“She’s growing on me,” Anya shrugs, without bothering to hide her newfound amusement — Lexa has a feeling this isn’t the last time Anya brings up Clarke. “But I came here to tell you I’m picking you up at seven for dinner. You can be here, you can be at your apartment, you can be hiding in the sewer. We’re having dinner.”

No. Absolutely not. 

All Lexa wants is to finish answering her emails and go back to her apartment, soak in the tub until her fingertips are all pruney and a bottle of wine is gone. She wants to put on comfortable pajamas and sleep this week away. 

“Anya, I’m not in the mood to go out for dinner,” Lexa sighs and closes her eyes, dropping her forehead to her palm. Exhaustion clings to her, and this conversation isn’t helping. 

“I know and I don’t care. You bailed last week, you have no choice.” Anya has no trouble reminding Lexa over and over again of her poor excuse for not going to the dinner party with their friends, and seems determined to hang this over Lexa’s head. She gets up and stands in front of the desk until Lexa opens her eyes and meets her gaze. “You can hate yourself all you want, despite having done nothing wrong. But you shouldn’t take that out on Clarke.”

Answering emails is the furthest thing from Lexa’s mind when Anya walks out and closes the door behind her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be from Clarke’s POV, following her storming out and we’ll get to see her side of things. Not to be a tease, but I’m excited about her drinking her frustration away!

**Author's Note:**

> You can come yell at me on [Tumblr](http://sassymajesty.tumblr.com) and [Twitter](https://twitter.com/sassymajesty)! :')
> 
> If you want to know more about my writing and other stories, I put everything together in a page [here](http://sassymajesty.tumblr.com/writing)!


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